Chelsie Me!
by Kissman
Summary: A collection of Chelsie ficlets inspired by a list of prompts all phrased "[blank] me" posted by askboxmemes on tumblr.
1. Amuse Me

**I came across a cute little list of writing prompts on tumblr – 26 in all, one for each letter of the alphabet. I twisted it into a writing exercise for myself. Here is 'A':**

**Amuse Me: A funny drabble about one character trying to cheer another up.**

**I'm going to start things off with a rather silly one. Very silly. Too silly. Enjoy.**

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Lady Grantham had made yet another colossal change to their plans for the upcoming house party and Mrs. Hughes had grown quite weary of reworking her timetable, only to have it made obsolete the minute she'd finished. She trudged up the stairs to the servant's wing in search of Mr. Carson. She didn't like the idea of disturbing him one hour into his half day, but if he was still in the house than she knew he would want to be informed immediately.

As she approached his bedroom she heard a strange sound echoing in the deserted corridor. It was a song. A quiet, rhythmic tune that came from the room at the end of the hall. Mr. Carson's room. She recognized his voice now, humming merrily away.

Curious and amused she tiptoed to the door, which was barely open, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him before he noticed her. When she spotted him her mouth fell open. He wasn't just singing to himself – he was singing to himself while _juggling apples. _She could hardly believe it. He had five of them going in the air at once and was so focused that he didn't notice her push his bedroom door open.

"Does Mrs. Patmore know you're hording her apples?" she asked, stepping gaily into the room. He gave a start and promptly dropped the apples, sending them rolling in all directions.

"Mrs. Hughes!" he sputtered, looking very abashed, "I didn't see you there."

"Clearly," she remarked brightly, helping him gather the wayward fruit.

He turned redder than apples as she handed them back to him. He lined them up neatly on the table, unable to meet her eye in his embarrassment. When he could fuss with them no more he was brave enough to address her. "I'm sorry Mrs. Hughes, I didn't mean for you to see that."

"I'm sure, but it's hardly the most scandalous thing in the world now is it?" she remarked lightly. She didn't see the harm in such a pastime, though she had not thought it something he would want to do. He'd been very adamant about no longer being the man that once made up half of the Cheerful Charlie's. He didn't even like that part of his life being alluded to.

Her easy words reassured him that she wasn't appalled, but his discomfort was no so easily set aside. "Perhaps not, but I'd rather you not mentioned to anyone."

She nodded. "Of course not," she assured him, "but I do have one question."

"Yes?" he asked, apprehensively.

Mrs. Hughes regarded him carefully, trying to assess the best way to address her query without making him feel more vulnerable than he already did. "It's just…I thought you preferred to forget that chapter in your life."

"I do," he said firmly, "but I wanted to see if…if I still could…never mind it was a foolish fancy that I never should have indulged."

"I see," she said carefully. "And what brought on this foolish fancy of yours?"

"That's two questions."

"Technically, the first one was a statement."

"Technically," he admitted, casting his eyes around the room.

"And you're avoiding the question," she pointed out. He seemed sad, or if not sad, very pensive. She was keen to understand the source of his distress. Something was bothering him beyond his embarrassment at being caught, she was sure. Mr. Carson thought for a long moment and then motioned for her to sit down on the chair. She obliged silently, sensing he was on the verge of a confession.

He took a seat on his bed opposite her. She had asked and he would answer, as honestly as he could. "I suppose I'm feeling old, Mrs. Hughes."

That hadn't been what she expected. Old? "That's not something I thought I'd hear you on about," she said, surprised.

"Well, it's true. I am. I feel it, more and more everyday in my legs and my back and my shoulders. I'm slowing down, Mrs. Hughes, there's no denying it."

She had to actively stop herself from letting her eyes roam over his body as he described it to her. She's felt the feeling he described, perhaps not quite as acutely as he felt it now, but she did understand.

"It got me thinking," he continued, "wondering if I could still do everything I used to be able to. Which led me to-"

"Juggling," she finished for him.

"Yes," he said abashed. What a fool he thought he was. What did it matter if he could still juggle? Did he think it would prove he wasn't old?

"Well can you? Juggle like you used to?" she asked, casually.

"You know perfectly well, seeing as you caught me. Must you ridicule me as well?"

She opened her mouth to protest that she hadn't meant to ridicule him at all, but he cut her off. "Save your speeches on my honour and integrity, Mrs. Hughes. I know you think so, but I am also aware of how undignified I was. How undignified I am."

He looked like a kicked puppy and Mrs. Hughes wanted to cross the room shake some sense into him. She had a better idea, however. "I was going to say, Mr. Carson, that all of us are permitted to have some…undignified talents at you would put it."

"You're one to talk," he muttered, still very dejected. "You're one of the most dignified women I know, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Carson, but you don't know everything about me," she remarked lightly. "Wait right here. I'll be back in half a minute."

"What?" he said stupidly, rising from the bed.

"Stay," she implored him, sweeping out of the room.

She returned a moment later bearing a dusty shoebox. Mr. Carson looked at her in utter confusion. What on earth was she about? She shut the door firmly behind her.

"Mrs. Hughes, what-" he began, appalled at the idea of her shutting them alone together in his bedroom. In the middle of the day no less! It was odd enough to have such an intimate conversation here when the door was open, but this seemed entirely inappropriate.

"Hush!" she chided him, slipping off her shoes. "No one will notice, and this will only take a minute." She flipped open the shoe box and pulled out a very old, very worn pair of tap shoes. He frowned in confusion.

"I can tap dance," she said simply.

He snorted, but she was being dead serious. "You can do what?!"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I told you, you're not the only one with undignified talents, Mr. Carson." She stepped into her tap shoes, which remarkably still fit, and grinned at his flabbergasted expression.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll murder you," she said firmly, before launching into a series of shuffle steps. Mr. Carson stared in amazement as she tapped in a little circle around the room, finishing with an exaggerated curtsy.

"Where on earth did you learn to do THAT?" he asked, enchanted and positively shocked.

"From an American woman, in the village where I grew up." she explained, laughing as his jaw dropped even further. "These were actually her shoes at one time. She taught me in secret, my mother never would have approved."

"I should think not. I doubt she wished her daughter having aspirations to be a vaudevillian."

"In my defense, I knew nothing of Vaudeville growing up, so there was never any danger of that. I just liked the sound of the steps. I haven't tried it since I went into service, but I kept the shoes as a reminder."

"It's impressive that you remember so much since it's been that long," he remarked.

"Thank you," she said, taking a step towards him. "Now, do you find me hopelessly undignified and ridiculous?"

He regarded her with delight. Just when he thought he knew all there was to know about her, she managed to surprise him. "Perhaps a little bit," he teased, taking her hands in his, "but thank you."

"For?" she asked coyly.

"For cheering me up," he said, kissing her swiftly on the nose. Now it was her turn to look flabbergasted.

"I'm sorry, was that too ridiculous?" he said mischievously.

It took her a moment to recover, but when she did she tugged at the lapels of his jacket. "No, you missed," she replied, pressing her lips to his. He pulled her closer, kissing her deeply and letting his hands roam up and down her back. When they finally broke apart he grinned at her and she beamed back. Charles Carson thought perhaps there wasn't anything wrong with being a little cheerful.


	2. Break Me

**Break Me: An angsty drabble about our characters.**

**An alternative look at how her health scare could have gone.**

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"Well, is it or isn't it?"

Mrs. Patmore bit her lip, casting her eyes to the floor. There was no good way to break such news. She might as well just come out and say it. "I'm afraid that it is."

Mr. Carson felt faint. He'd been bracing for this news all afternoon, trying to prepare himself for the worst, but it still was a shock. His mind spun as he considered the implications. Cancer. It really was cancer.

He searched Mrs. Patmore's eyes for a trace of hope. Surely there was something they could do? Something that doctors could do? The cook just shook her head sadly. "No, nothing," she said, answering the unspoken question.

"Where is she?"

"Hanging up her coat. She's sent me away for the time being." Mrs. Patmore had offered to stay with her, but was not surprised to have been shooed away to the kitchen. She was not hurt to have been dismissed; it was understandable that the woman wanted space to come to terms with things. She always did insist on working through difficulties on her own, but surely this time she'd let someone in. She had to.

"Should I go and see her?" He wanted to, more than anything, but he wasn't sure how receptive she'd be.

"Perhaps you should." Mrs. Patmore was no fool. She'd been desperate for Mrs. Hughes to confide in him from the minute they'd suspected something was wrong. While the cook may have resented being tricked into telling him, but she never begrudged him knowing. He was devoted to her, in his own funny way, and now that it was confirmed the truth would have to come out sooner or later.

He made his way slowly to her sitting room, steeling his resolve, pushing his own feelings down in an attempt to focus on hers. She didn't need a blubbering idiot right now. She needed her friend. He could do that.

He knocked quietly before pushing the door open. "Mrs. Hughes?"

"I'm busy, Mr. Carson." She didn't have the capacity to lie to him; her only hope would be if he left her alone. Sitting down hid her shaking and her desk was oriented such that she kept her back to him, her face hidden.

It is a pipe dream to think he's going to leave without answers, she knows that. He was dreadful at feigning ignorance before and he's going to be insufferable now. But she doesn't know how to put him off. Nor does she know how to let him in.

He broke the ice for her. "Mrs. Patmore's told me," he said gently, closing the door behind him.

She stiffened. Yet again, she doesn't feel like she's in control of her own life. Everything is happening around her, without her permission or her consent. It is so much the opposite of the way she's used to living. "She shouldn't have, that wasn't hers to tell."

He does not dispute that. It was not his business to begin with, strictly speaking, but damn it all if she thinks he won't make it his business. She's done precisely that to him often enough, she's in no position to object.

"Mrs. Hughes-"

"Just go away, Mr. Carson. Please." Her voice was brittle, breaking into little pieces along with the rest of her. She can't hold on to her composure much longer. He has to go.

"Is that really what you want?" He will go, if that will help, but he doesn't think it will. She cannot mean to face this all by herself.

"No." It was so quiet he almost missed it, but he sees her shoulders slump as her grief crashes over her. She's held it together this long and she's tired. Spent. Lost.

He placed his a hand on her shoulder and she crumples under his touch. She wanted so badly to face him with dignity. To sit primly and calmly tell him that everyone dies, some sooner rather than later, and it would seem for her sooner. She longs for that pragmatic and professional persona that would have her reassuring him that she has accepted her fate gracefully, but she can't find it. It is too lofty a goal, even for her.

"Mrs. Hughes, I'm so sorry." It's not a phrase filled with pity, for he knows she is brave, but it acknowledges the gravity of the situation, and that's worth something.

Her body is not her own, her sobs take over and his heart breaks all over again. This is why he is there, to bring her through this. He has a purpose and that strengthens him. Carefully he guided her out of her chair, pulling her close and letting her cry.

She clings to him, her port in the storm. She doesn't feel embarrassed; they're well past that now. He makes her feel safe and so her crying becomes a cathartic release. As her tears slow he takes it upon himself to wipe the last few of them away. She's still clinging to him and he won't let her go until she's good and ready.

"You know that I love you." Simple. Straightforward. He's never told her explicitly before. There has never been any need to. But in her time of a crisis, a simple reminder wouldn't go amiss.

"Yes, I know you do." She's always known, but it warms her to hear him say it. It is not something she takes lightly, his love, nor something she takes for granted. "Thank you."

"And you won't be alone."

She thinks of Mrs. Patmore, telling her she won't be alone for a minute if she doesn't want to be. She thinks of Lady Grantham, of her insistence that they would take care of her no matter what. She thinks of him, ever her rock and her salvation. In the darkness that threatens to engulf her there is a flicker of light. Sprung from the candles lit by those around her, a vigil and a guide. It is strange that in this terrible moment, in the beginning of the end, she feels the most loved.


	3. Call Me

**Call Me: A drabble about one character asking for the other. **

**A/N Alternatively titled: "What would happen if Carson tried to deal with the notorious kitchen love quadrilateral once and for all." This one went in a weird direction and was typed under great discomfort so... here be typos.**

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"I've had it up to here with them!" Mr. Carson was furious. To be fair, he had good reason to be. Things in the kitchen had become a little…out of hand as it were. "I'm serious, Mrs. Hughes, it's affecting their work to an impossible degree. Dinner was a nightmare tonight and we have those four to blame."

"You'll get no argument out of me, Mr. Carson, we're going to have to do something." This was the last straw. Their mooning over each other had escalated to a ridiculous degree and had resulted in some very stupid decisions. Some very stupid decisions that saw footmen trying to steal kisses from kitchen maids and ended with kitchen maids being covered in the evening's soup. In the words of a tortured Mrs. Patmore 'was this a kitchen or a blooming three ring circus?'

"We?" Mr. Carson was ready to take this matter into his own hands. "I think it's time I gave them a talking to and put and end to this business once and for all."

"Do you think that wise, Mr. Carson? Perhaps we ought to try a less direct approach."

"Your _less direct approach _is what's gotten us into the mess in the first place!" he grumbled. "We should have put our foot down at the first sign of trouble." She bristled at the accusation that she was responsible for their ridiculous behavior. He ignored her obvious displeasure. "They're adults, they just need to be made to see reason." he insisted.

_They're children,_ she thought to herself. "It's not that simple," she warned him.

"Of course it is. Leave it to me, Mrs. Hughes."

She couldn't believe his arrogance. Fine. If that's what he wanted then more power to him.

"As you wish. Make a mess of it," she said testily. She turned on her heel and marched off upstairs. If he didn't want her help, she was going to be as far away from this as possible.

Approximately half an hour later Anna appeared, looking rather shaken, and knocked politely on the open bedroom door. The housekeeper looked up from her book.

"Mr. Carson has requested me to ask you to come downstairs," Anna relayed.

Mrs. Hughes did not look amused. "And he is not capable of asking himself?"

Anna twisted her hands together awkwardly. "Not exactly."

Mrs. Hughes's curiosity was piqued, but she worked hard not to show it. "I was under the impression that Mr. Carson did not require my assistance," she said coolly.

Anna bit her lip, looking startlingly like Mrs. Hughes for a moment. "Please Mrs. Hughes, he asked for you specifically and… I think you really ought to come."

Anna sounded nervous and Mrs. Hughes got the distinct impression that there was something she wasn't being told. How badly could it possibly have gone? Here was her excuse to find out. "Alright then," she said, giving an exasperated sigh. "Lead the way."

Anna nodded, only too happy that she didn't have to play the messenger between the two heads of staff anymore. "They're all gathered in the servants hall," said Anna apprehensively. "Waiting for you, I believe."

Waiting for her? Curiouser and curiouser. Anna led as far as the staircase before hastily stepping to the side. It was oddly quiet and Mrs. Hughes frowned, not sure of what to make of the atmosphere that had built up. At the bottom of the stairs stood Thomas, Mr. Bates, Miss. Baxter, and Mr. Moseley all looking rather stunned. Normally she would have chastised them for all standing around, but something stopped her. She would deal with them in a minute, if need be. First she had to see what had gone on with Mr. Carson's little…endeavour.

The scene before her in the servant's hall was quite a sight. They were all waiting, as Anna had said: Mr. Carson, Alfred, Jimmy, Ivy, Daisy, and Mrs. Patmore (who had a vested interest in the matter). Jimmy's lip was bleeding; Ivy was full on weeping; Daisy looked furious; Alfred was cradling his hand; Mrs. Patmore was at a loss for words and in the middle of it all stood Mr. Carson looking profoundly annoyed. Perhaps the most startlingly thing of it all was every one of them - from Ivy to Mr. Carson - was covered head-to-toe in flour.

Mrs. Hughes took a moment to survey the scene, trying to keep her face convincingly neutral. She succeeded. In a low voice that belied no amusement, nor anger she instructed Mr. Mosley to bring a basin of water and some rags, Ms. Baxter to take Daisy to Mr. Carson's pantry and Anna to take Daisy to her sitting room. Mr. Bates was to take Jimmy upstairs to clean his face up and she would deal with Alfred's hand herself. Why, the poor boys knuckles were swelling before her very eyes!

She related these directions, clearly and firmly, as if she were relaying a food order or delegating loads of laundry. It was only when she caught Mr. Carson's sheepish gaze that there was a glimmer in her eye of…of what exactly? Ire? Delight? It hit him like a bolt of lightening. A glimmer of satisfaction. He was never going to hear the end of this.

It took over an hour for her to unwind the tangled knot that was the four of them. She shooed Mr. Carson away, telling him that he had already provided 'all the assistance required.' Abashed he went to clean himself up, and waited for her to finish her work. With great care she went round and spoke with each of them individually (for this is where Mr. Carson first went wrong), bandaged up their wounds (some literally), and smoothed over the disaster the evening had proven to be.

When she was content that the kitchen was not going to be a source of unmitigated chaos tomorrow she send them to their beds and they went without objection. She still had one more person to deal with however, the grumpy and perplexed man waiting patiently for her to get round to him.

She stepped into his room, dusting off the last of the flour that had transferred onto her dress. She decided perhaps it would be best if he spoke first. After an uncomfortably long silence (in his opinion, not hers), he took the hint.

"You knew I would fail." It was more of a statement than an accusation.

"Not quite so spectacularly." She has to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. It's not funny, she told herself, but in a way it was.

"But you knew," he said, looking almost hurt.

She wanted to be somewhat diplomatic. She had not come to mock him. "You knew going in I'd rather it be handled… differently," she said. "And I'm not pleased that you did fail mind you." She means it; it's not what she wanted, even if it did validate her methods.

He considered this for a moment. "I think…" the words pain him, but they must be said. "I think I will leave personal issues between the staff to you in future, Mrs. Hughes."

"Perhaps that would be for the best. We'll not say anymore about it."

He looked at her gratefully. She wasn't angry, but even better than that she wasn't disappointed. He's not sure how he managed to escape that, but was delighted that he has.

She'd made it this far with a straight face, but as he turned to say goodnight her giggles finally erupt. "What is it?" he demanded.

"It's just…" she can hardly control herself now, "you've got a good bit of flour on you collar still."

"Oh, would you?" He turned back and bent some so that she might reach it. "You know the worst part of all this?" he asked, patiently letting her brush it away.

"No," she said, still laughing, "what?"

"The flour was mostly Mrs. Patmore's fault."

* * *

**A little ridiculous, but that is the mood tonight. Next Up: Drink Me. Keep your corkscrews handy! **


	4. Drink Me

**Drink Me: A drabble about one character doing shots with the other.**

**I have already written Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes hammered, in my story "A Few Too Many," so instead of repeating myself (and because I cannot conceive of them doing shots outside of a Modern AU) I've twisted this one slightly to be about the two of them drinking in general, instead of in excess. **

**This one got away from me a little bit length-wise. This might be a regular occurrence. I would have written you a shorter story, but I didn't have the time.**

* * *

"Would you care to join me for a bit of wine tonight, Mrs. Hughes?" It is a standard request, one that was made several times a month, but it still delights her when he makes a point of asking. He's always so formal, even after fifteen years of their routine.

"That would be lovely, Mr. Carson." It is her standard reply and she means it. Their evenings together are sacred, precious to her. For a few stolen moments she gets to shed her housekeeper persona and just be herself with him. Her personality while running the house is not entirely an act, much of who she truly is shines through in her day to day work, but it is a calculated version of herself. A version she has carefully refined over years of service to be ruthlessly efficient and effective at her job. A person so much like her that sometimes she gets lost in Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper and forgets about Elsie Hughes, the woman.

But he reminds her. In the evenings they spend together, as they sip their wine and delight in each other's company she remembers. That day, more so than other days, she needs the reminder.

To her surprise there is a new bottle on the side table, instead of the usual carafe of surplus wine from the upstairs dinner. She looks at Mr. Carson in surprise.

"Not leftovers tonight?" she asks. She cannot remember the last time they had opened a new bottle together. It must have been several years at least.

"This one is from my private stores," he says proudly. "It's a special occasion."

"Is it now?" she asks, confused.

He pulls out a pair of wine glasses and places them on the table beside the open bottle. "You would know better than I," he says, looking at her pointedly.

She looks at him warily, trying to assess if he knows or if he only suspects. He smiles knowingly back and she has her answer.

"Who gave me away?" she asks gruffly.

"The only person who ever gives you away. Mrs. Patmore, of course."

Mrs. Hughes sighs. Complain _one time _to Beryl Patmore about turning sixty and she blabbers it all over the Abbey. Perhaps that wasn't fair, Mrs. Patmore probably only mentioned it to Mr. Carson… but still. "That woman could not keep a secret if her life depended on it."

Mr. Carson suppresses a smile. "To be fair I did trick her into telling me."

She settles into her usual chair, knowing there was probably some truth to his words. "Yes, you usually do. Wicked, that."

To his credit, he does look a little abashed by the comment. "I wouldn't go that far, Mrs. Hughes," he says. "I prefer clever."

"Nosy, more like." she teases him.

"Mrs. Hughes, that is the pot calling the kettle black."

She laughs. "Aye, as you say," she agrees. "Does it need to breathe?"

He smiles. She didn't pay much attention to wine on the whole, but one didn't work in such a house for so long without picking some of it up. He suspects she knows more than she lets on, but keeps it to herself.

"I opened it half an hour ago for that express purpose," he explains, pouring for her.

"You anticipated me," she remarks, taking the glass he offered.

He shrugs. "I like to think I know you fairly well by now."

"Well, I wouldn't want to be too predictable in my old age." She is joking, but there is a hint of bitterness to it. A hint of bitterness he wants to smother.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says resolutely.

Mrs. Hughes arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm never ridiculous."

"Never ridiculous?" he teases. "Are you quite certain?"

She feigns offense. "Mr. Carson, what are you implying?"

He holds his hands up in mocking supplication. "Nothing untoward, Mrs. Hughes. But we were all young and foolish once."

She gives a little smirk at the word young, but decides not to rise to it. "Are you going to get sentimental on me?" she asks him, taking a small sip of wine.

"Perish the thought," he returns. "Though if there ever were an occasion-"

"Watch it," she warns him. "You are treading on uneven ground, Mr. Carson. Besides, I'm not young and foolish anymore." She takes another sip of her wine. It was quite nice, not that she really had much of an opinion on such things, usually.

"But you admit that you were once," he says, taking a sip of his own.

She thinks for a moment, studying the ruby-red wine in her glass. "Yes, I would say that's a fair assessment." She takes another sip, trying to figure out if she's ever had it before. The more she drinks, the more familiar it seems.

"Do you like it?" he asks carefully.

"Yes, but I feel like I've had this before. What did you say this was?"

"I didn't," he says. He hadn't thought she would actually recognize it at all after all this time. "It's…umm…a Bordeaux."

She frowns at him, "yes, I figured that much on my own." He is acting very strangely, and he won't quite meet her eye. "I have a feeling there's more to it than that."

"It's a 1899 Chateau Latour Paulliac."

She almost drops her glass, a blush rising in her cheeks. "The third bottle of it, hmm?"

He nods. "I see," she continues. "Hence the line of questioning on young and foolish."

He looks up. She doesn't seem angry with him, and she very well could have been. In fact, she looks remarkably bashful. Mr. Carson thought she was dreadfully pretty when she blushed like that.

"It was a silly idea."

"Then or now?" she says flippantly.

He looks at her sharply. "You were very clear how you felt about it back then, Mrs. Hughes," he says quietly.

"I don't recall you disagreeing with me on that score," she returns scornfully.

She is right. They had made a stupid and reckless decision, after one too many celebratory glasses of wine (it was not everyday one was promoted to housekeeper, it was an occasion worthy of celebration at the time). It was just a kiss…or two. An impulse they had both had, and both immediately regretted. The next morning they had dismissed it with cold, detached professionalism and buried it deep, a memory not to be disturbed. Until now.

"We were younger," he offers.

She snorts, "but not young." Forty was far too old for such behavior, they'd said so themselves, even then.

"And we were tipsy."

"We were drunk," she counters. Call a spade a spade for goodness sakes.

"And very foolish," he adds.

"Very foolish." She sounds almost wistful. She drains her glass and looks at him longingly. She has gotten so good at restraint as far as he was concerned, but every once and a while – if he knew it or not – he tested her resolve.

"Would you like some more?" he asks, picking up the bottle. He was going to be the death of her.

"Are we to be drunk again, then?" she asks.

"That is up to you."

"Mr. Carson! What has gotten into you today?"

Honestly, he isn't sure. There was something about her birthday that reminds him exactly how long they've known each other, how long they've buried their feelings and for the first time he feels unsatisfied with the arrangement. He knows he shouldn't be, she is the dearest friend he could ask for, and he wouldn't jeopardize that for anything. Besides, they had been down that other route before only to deem it a mistake. But he couldn't help wishing…wondering…wanting…

"I don't know," he says, setting his glass down and standing up. "I'm just…nostalgic?"

"Hmm." She picks up the half empty wine bottle and approaches him. "So this is nostalgia?" she challenges, holding it out.

She has him there.

Their fingers brush as he takes the bottle from her hands, sending a little tremor of exhilaration through him. And what did she think she's doing, looking at him like that? Did she know what that look did to him?

He deserves it. He's started it. But she is escalating it, taking another unflinching step closer to him. They shouldn't, they know that. But there's no help for it; they've already tumbled down the rabbit hole again.

"Mr. Carson," she says slowly, drawing out his name in that charming accent of hers. "We are not young anymore."

"We are not," he agrees, hardly daring to breathe.

"And we are not drunk," she says matter-of-factly.

"We are not." She is too close. He can't take this. Fifteen years of self-control is slipping through his fingers.

"And we are not foolish," she insists.

"I might be foolish," he replies, closing his eyes. It doesn't make a whit of difference; he can still sense her presence and is acutely aware of her body inches away from his. He tries so had to control himself, but she doesn't want him to anymore. She doesn't care. She places her delicate hands on his chest to steady herself as she stands on her tiptoes.

"Please, be foolish," she whispers.

He opens his eyes to find her face turned up towards him, no hint of uncertainty in her features. It is all the invitation he needs. He bends down to kiss her softly and she melts into him. It starts gently, almost hesitantly on his part, as if at any moment she might pull away. She won't. She's wanted to just as badly as he has for the past fifteen years, but this time she refuses to regret it. She kisses him ardently back, trying with all her might to reassure him that she is his, and she is not going anywhere this time.

Having her in his arms is a thousand times better than any daydream he's permitted himself since the day they'd sealed her promotion with a kiss. She fits perfectly, pressed up against him, and he can't imagine how they ever let themselves dismiss this. Ignore this.

When the break apart for air, he is so happy that tears threaten. It is a sensation he's never felt before, such complete unbridled joy. She feels it as well, and is forced to hold onto him tightly, lest her legs fail her entirely. He is everything she has ever wanted, and everything she thought she couldn't have. She reaches up to caress his cheek and he beams at her.

"Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hughes," he murmurs.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

**A/N I hope you enjoyed, leave a review if you can. Next up: Enamour Me! **


	5. Enamour Me

**Enamour Me: A fluffy drabble about one character trying to woo the other.**

**The thing I adore about fanfic is how you can watch your favourite characters confront their feelings and fall in love with each other (over and over again!) in a multitude of ways. There isn't one right answer instead there are dozens. **

**What I'm trying to set up is: I'm not sure if I believe this is how Charles Carson thinks. But it could be. I thought I'd give it a go and see what happened. **

**Bonus! I tucked in several PL film references into this one. See if you can find them all, and let me know how many you come up with.**

* * *

He'd originally put the photograph on his desk, but it was too strange having Alice be a silent witness to his new life. It hadn't seemed right. Instead, he pulled it out every once and again to remind himself of their time together. She'd told him once that every picture tells a story, and as he reminisced he wondered what story this one told. The only woman he'd ever courted, surrounded by a frame that reminded him of someone else.

He often wondered, in that place between waking and sleeping, what it would be like to have courted _her _ instead. If they had met in another time, another place what might have happened? Would he have gotten that same queer nervous feeling in his stomach if he'd gone out walking with her?

She didn't make him nervous, not really. Holding her hand had been a bit of a leap for him, but once it was happening it hadn't been nerve-racking, it had been nice. Comfortable, even. Every morning since that day at the beach in Brighton, as she smiled at him and silently buttered his toast at the breakfast table, he found himself less and less convinced that what he felt for her was entirely platonic.

Once that idea was planted, it grew like a weed. The more he thought, the surer he became. His enlightenment brought unrelenting frustration, to the point where he cursed himself for ever ruminating on the subject.

Because now that he knew, he _had_ to do something about it.

Suddenly spending any time at all with her made him feel tremendously guilty. He was keeping a great secret from her, one that made him more uncomfortable by the hour. He couldn't avoid her, and every moment in her presence made it worse. He couldn't go on like this, for she was bound to catch on sooner or later.

He was never very good at lying to her.

There were rules for this sort of thing. Countless rules, really. And they conflicted. Rules about how housekeepers and butlers were supposed to relate to each other, (romantic entanglements not forbidden, but also not accepted). Rules about how one went about courting someone, (hopelessly out of date for someone of his age, but not entirely useless.) But most importantly there were rules about how you treated people you respect, and without a doubt she had his utmost respect.

Honesty was the best policy. They were not built on secrets and lies, and that was all that awaited them if he didn't make himself plain. He would be honest with her, and she would decide if she felt the same. Even if she didn't, her rejection would be easier to deal with than this uneasy silent truth.

It was a warm summer night when he finally decided to ask her. She liked spending a few minutes of her evening in the garden on the odd night she had a moment to herself. He made his way through the greenery, to the place he knew she liked to go. Out of the shadows cast by the trees and shrubs he spotted her, sitting on one of the benches staring up at the stars. The air was sweet, filled with the perfume of the blossoming flowers and a nightingale sang merrily in a nearby elder tree. He could not have asked for a more appropriate setting in the entirety of Downton Abbey.

"Mrs. Hughes, might I have a word?" She turned and smiled at him. And then frowned because he appeared so anxious standing there looking most uncomfortable. He'd made up his mind to ask her, but now that the moment had come he didn't remember the words. He had planned so carefully; the not-entirely-ambiguous phrasing, the deliberately open body language, the kind but dignified tone. All out the window. She had always made him feel so at ease before, but now he couldn't be more nervous if he were standing before the royal family.

"Would you-" He had to pause to collect himself. His heartbeat was so unnaturally loud that surely she could hear it. This was no different than any other request he told himself. It wasn't true, but it steadied his nerves. "That is to say, I was wondering if you would be open to the idea of going for a walk with me?"

Her eyebrows shot up, but she didn't look displeased, not at all. "I believe I would be, Mr. Carson."

He had to be sure she'd understood him. That she fully comprehended what he was asking and that she was sure of her answer. "Because if you don't wish to see-"

She cut him off gently. "Mr. Carson it would be a pleasure to…go out walking with you." Her careful emphasis made her understanding perfectly clear, and her radiant smile filled him with all the hope and glory his heart could possible hold.

**Did you find them all? Next up: Fight Me! Time to dream up Chelsie spats. **


	6. Fight Me

**Fight Me: A drabble about one character fighting with/or against the other.**

**Thank you to Chelsie Dagger for suggesting one of their earliest fights, before they'd learned to trust and understand each other. **

* * *

_Downton Abbey, 1901_

There was a distinct shift in the atmosphere. She noticed immediately. She was the sort to notice these things, and it didn't matter that she'd only been at Downton a short time. She'd been the head housemaid merely six months before a startlingly quick promotion to housekeeper. Her experience with these people may have been brief, but it had been intense, so when she entered the drawing room and found her and Mr. Carson sitting she knew something must be amiss.

In fact she was momentarily stunned to find the butler sitting on one of the armchairs across from Lady Grantham. Was he ill? The thought made her heart tighten a little. Mr. Carson never sat in the presence of the family. Ever. He didn't look well, his brow knit together in concern over something. She noticed a scrap of paper clenched in his hand that looked suspiciously like a telegram. Had there been news from South Africa? They had frequent updates from his Lordship, the latest of which suggested by might be home soon. Mrs. Hughes had never met the man of the house in person, but she knew Mr. Carson was very found of Lord Grantham, speaking of him so often that she felt as if she knew him already. She made a silent prayer that nothing had happened to this man that the Family, and Mr. Carson held so dear.

"I'm sorry, should I come back later m'lady?"

Lady Grantham shook her head, "No, come in Mrs. Hughes. Mr. Carson was just leaving." The butler stood abruptly. Whatever he and her Ladyship had been discussing was clearly finished, and he made his exit without his usual words of departure. Very peculiar.

Lady Grantham sighed and motioned for her to approach. They had household matters to discuss and there was no point in delaying. Mrs. Hughes found she had to put forth surprising effort to focus her thoughts on their mundane conversation about menus.

* * *

He was stonewalling her. She'd given every opportunity to tell her what is wrong and he denied her at every turn. Frustrated by her constant needling he retreated upstairs to the attics on some trumped up pretense just to avoid her.

She was unnaturally consumed by a desire to understand what had upset him so. Something had happened, and her mind would not rest until she figured it out.

She walked by his empty pantry, for what felt like the hundredth time that day and her curiosity got the better of her. It couldn't hurt to have a look; perhaps she would notice something useful. Perhaps that telegram would be lying around.

With this in mind, she stepped inside. The butler's pantry was not off-limits to her exactly, but to be there without him definitely didn't feel right. She wouldn't be long though…just a quick scan to make she there wasn't anything out of place….

"Mrs. Hughes?!"

She jumped about a mile. She thought she would have at least heard his footfalls in the corridor, and had some warning. Instead he'd crept up silently and ended up startling the wits out of her.

He was not pleased to find her poking through his desk and fixed her with a firm glare. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She wasn't closer than she was an hour ago to understanding him and now had the added discomfort of being on the receiving end of his anger. She had no excuse, let alone a plausible one. Entering his pantry had clearly been a mistake. A very foolish mistake.

It was then that she spotted it. A scrap of paper was peaking out from underneath his desk, where it had fallen to the floor. She bent quickly and snatched it up before he had time to react.

She held it aloft. Might as well tell the truth. "I was looking for this," she said, much more bravely than she felt.

"And what, pray tell, do you think you're doing with that?" She had no business, no business at all. The telegram was addressed to Lady Grantham. He had told her so in response to her incessant badgering. Why hadn't that been enough for her to leave well enough alone?

"I wanted to see what it said." She cringed at her own blunt honesty. _Oh very good Elsie, and while we're at it why don't we just confess all our secrets and get them out of the way hmm? _

"What it says is none of your business."

She shouldn't argue. She knew that she was wrong and that she should tuck her tail between her legs and leave, but she couldn't. There was something sad in his eyes and she couldn't bear that.

"You told me on my very first day that I was permitted to concern myself with anything that was upsetting the staff," she said pointedly.

"This is not something that has upset the staff!" he said incredulously.

"It's upset you. Aren't you staff?" She locked eyes with him. He wasn't used to being challenged so and he wasn't sure he liked it much. He took a step closer to her, drawing himself up in what he imagined to be an intimidating fashion.

"You know bloody well what I meant by that, Mrs. Hughes. I'll thank you not to twist my words into nonsense."

He'd never sworn at her before, and it was a slip he regretted, but he was not going to let her see that now. She grew angry with this frustratingly closed off man. He had no idea how much his mood affected the entire house. Whenever he was in a foul temper he set everyone's teeth on edge from Mrs. Patmore to the hall boys and everyone in-between. When he was upset it cast a shadow the likes of which she'd never seen. It was absurd. And it was the first thing she'd wanted to fix when she'd been promoted, to try and temper his mood.

Needless to say her initial efforts were not going well.

His face grew redder as she unfolded the telegram defiantly. She'd already made him furious, she might as well see why. In for a penny, in for a pound. She read it quickly, hands shaking. It was clearly about his Lordship, there was something about a hospital and a …detainment? Not that couldn't be right.

"I don't quite understand this," she remarked, scanning the words again.

"That," he ground out, snatching the paper from her hands. "Is because it is not for you."

She could feel his fury radiating off him. He thought he could imitate her, but she just reflected his frustration back at him. She sidestepped him, careful to reign in her emotions. She wasn't going to let him control the conversation the way he wanted to, and she certainly wasn't going to let him see how much he affected her.

"I'm only trying to help," she insisted, taking a deep calming breath.

"You are only trying to intrude," he shot back, as irritated as ever.

"And why do you think that is?" she challenged.

"Because you are a frustrating, irritating, meddlesome woman," he growled, throwing the telegram on the desk.

"Now, Mr. Carson. Is that really what you think of me?" She didn't look hurt as he thought she should, considering the nastiness of his remark. She looked almost amused.

"You do not seem to heed what I think," he said, deflecting her question.

"There is where you couldn't be more wrong." She had found a calm place, even if she was backed far into the corner of the room. Distance helped, even if only a few feet. "I'm sorry for invading your …privacy, Mr. Carson, truly I am. I only wanted to help."

"Why?" He didn't understand her. She was fiery and confusing, and she made him feel so off balance.

She sighed. That was a wonderful question. One she would probably be asking herself for the next decade at least.

"Because you were sitting."

"What?" He must have missed something; suddenly the conversation made no sense.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. "You were sitting. With Lady Grantham, remember? You never sit."

"Oh." He considered this for a moment. "No. I suppose I don't usually sit. It was …difficult news."

"And the details of which, I strongly suspect, are contained in that cryptic telegram," she said empathically, gesturing towards the desk. "Is _he_ alright?"

He had two choices at this point. She'd refused to be subject to his dressing down, a fact that he found both madding and oddly admirable. He could throw her out of his office, but he had a feeling this was a conversation they would have over and over again if they left it like this.

"Sit down, Mrs. Hughes," he said wearily.

For the first time since he entered the room the tension started to lift. He opened the telegram. Unnecessarily, as he knew precisely what it said, but the action served its purpose. She leaned forward, all ears for what he had to say.

"There is news from his Lordship," he began conversationally, as if he were reading her the church bulletin board. "A few weeks ago he was involved in a rather ugly battle."

Her eyes widened. "Is he badly hurt?"

"No, not very. Almost not at all. Apparently his batman took the brunt of it. His homecoming is to be delayed for a short, undetermined amount of time."

She felt a little ripple of relief as he said this, and didn't understand his morose expression. "But he will come home." she say questioningly.

He saw her confusion and he understood it immediately. She may have been here long enough to read him, but not long enough to understand the workings of everyone. When she held her finger to the pulse of the people at Downton she forgot an important group.

"It is very difficult for the young ladies," he explained. "They have not seen their father in almost two years. They were told he was coming home soon, and now that promise will be broken. Have you ever broken a promise like that to a child, Mrs. Hughes?"

She was left speechless by the tenderness of his words. She never would have thought that he was so attached to the children of their employer, but his pained speech proved him so. He could not be the father these little girls required, but he tried, valiantly and every day to remind them that their real father loved them and had not abandoned them. It grew harder with each passing month, as the girls grew up without him.

They sat in silence for a moment while she collected her thoughts. Beneath the gruff exterior was a man overflowing with more compassion than she'd imagined.

"He's been away too long, Mrs. Hughes," he said sadly, "the girls need their father, I fear they will forget him soon."

To his surprise she smiled at him. "They couldn't possibly," she said warmly.

"How do you figure?"

"Mr. Carson, I know as much about Lord Grantham as half the staff, despite having never laid eyes on the man. Do you know why? Because you've told me about him. I do not know, but I very much suspect, that if I were to eavesdrop on your unconventionally long visits with the children in the nursery – which I haven't mind – I would find you regaling them with similar stories. Would that be correct?"

He smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes, that would be correct."

"I'm sure the delay will be difficult for them," she said kindly, "but not impossible. And I'm confident that Lord Grantham knows what capable hands he's left the care of his family in."

The tips of his ears turned pink at the compliment. "Thank you for that, Mrs. Hughes."

"Thank you for telling me the truth, Mr. Carson."

"I feel like you gave me no choice," he said, with a hint of amusement.

She laughed "No, perhaps not." It was time for her to leave, there was much that had to be done before luncheon, but she was leaving satisfied with where they were.

"Mrs. Hughes," he said, as she reached the door.

She turned back towards him. "Yes?"

"There will be no need for you to rummage through my desk in future," he said sternly, "if there is any news I will do my best to keep you informed."

He nodded politely at her and she gave him a small conspiring smile in return. With a spring her step and a smile in his eye, they both returned to their work.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this rather lengthy instalment. Next up: Get me. **


	7. Get Me

**Get Me: A drabble about one character saving the other.**

**I threw Gwen in because I miss her, which puts this story sometime in series one. But with the Mrs. Hughes of, like, series four. And with the Mr. Carson of, like, never. And with a plot that sounds like something straight out of _Road to Avonlea, _not _Downton Abbey_. **

**Don't ask questions. We're having fun today.**

* * *

The walk had been her idea. The staff was melancholy, she'd argued, some proper fresh air would do them all a bit of good. It had been a long and treacherous winter that was stubbornly refusing to give way to spring. The warm weather had to come eventually, but even Mr. Carson was starting to have his doubts this year. She was right, in theory, a bit of a walk might cheer everyone up.

They picked a sunny day, one when most of the family was away, for their outing. Almost everyone had come, though Mrs. Patmore was forced to stay behind to get supper started. Thomas and Miss. O'Brien had stubbornly refused to go. It was optional, but they were the only ones that dared to defy Mrs. Hughes's 'strong suggestion'on the subject. The rest of the staff set off across the estate, with no particular destination or goal in mind. Just out and about she'd said. That's all.

The snow crunched beneath their feet as they made their way across the gently sloping hills. Some of the younger staff had taken to throwing snowballs at each other, to which Mr. Carson scowled until Mrs. Hughes gently reminded him of the purpose to the afternoon. He gave a non-committal grunt to which she rolled her eyes. He needed to lighten up some. She spotted a familiar patch of trees and steered them towards them. There was a pond just beyond should still be frozen she suggested; perhaps they might slide about a little bit. Mrs. Hughes smiled to herself. Maybe they could wipe that serious look off his face.

She forged ahead and he followed, unable the resist her enthusiasm, but when they reached the edge of the pond he hesitated.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Come on, you can hold my arm if you're worried about falling over."

"I'm more worried about falling _through, _Mrs. Hughes. Are you sure that's safe?"

"Don't be silly, of course it is. It's been below freezing for weeks."

Anna and Gwen appeared beside her, keen to slide on the pond, but awaiting express permission. Mrs. Hughes looked to Mr. Carson.

"Go ahead, but I think I'll stay here," he said, not keen to test his balance, nor his weight on the ice.

"Have it your way," she said, shaking her head. "Come on girls. Looks like it's you and me."

He smiled as she took their hands and they ventured onto the frozen pond. She always managed to socialize with the staff so more easily then he. Well, with her girls at least. Even slipping and sliding on a pond she was every bit an authority figure, never in danger of losing their respect. If it were he it would be gone in an instant, or so he thinks.

He shuttered as Gwen gave an experimental little jump. It is almost March; they really shouldn't push their luck like that. Then again he's always been over cautious about ice. He fell through as a child, during one of the first winters he'd been at Downton. He'd only been immersed a few seconds before a quick-thinking stable hand had yanked him out, but memories of the smothering icy water left him unnaturally wary of it his whole life long.

Watching them made him nervous so he decided to walk up to the top of the hill instead and see if he could see everyone. He'd told them not to wander off too far, but who knows what that means to boisterous youngsters.

If he was honest with himself, he was enjoying the afternoon. It was cold, but the sun was shining and it felt good to spend a little time out of doors. She was right, the spirits of the staff were already noticeably higher, and he had a feeling it would last through the next few weeks.

Once he was certain everyone was accounted for he allowed himself to relax. Happily he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling in the crisp winter air.

That's when he heard the crack.

It was a great thunderous sound that echoed through the trees, followed by a high-pitched girlish shout from one of the maids. His heart skipped a beat and his eyes snapped open. He looked to the pond, where an alarming scene was unfolding. A small hole had opened in the ice and there was a struggling figure that had fallen through. Anna and Gwen were both shouting at him and he realized in that instant that it must be Mrs. Hughes.

Charles Carson never moved so fast in his entire life. What on earth had he been thinking, letting them go out on a pond at this time of year? When he reached the edge Anna and Gwen were desperately trying to push a large tree branch towards the housekeeper.

The water was not very deep, but deep enough that it was difficult for her to keep her head above the water. Mrs. Hughes was actually quite a strong swimmer, but the cold water combined with the weight of her skirts immobilized her. Mr. Carson saw immediately that she was never going to be strong enough to even reach for the branch, let alone use it to pull herself out.

He grabbed smaller branch than the one the girls had picked and set out onto the treacherous ice on all fours. This was not a time for dignity; this was a time for action.

"Mr. Carson! You'll fall in!" Gwen cried from the shore. Mr. Carson ignored her, stretching himself onto his stomach, spreading his weight out as much as possible. His world had focused down to a singular point. Her. He could see her face slipping in and out of view; her sharp gasps the only sound in the world.

He reached the branch across the opening, more to steady himself than anything, as he reached for her. After a moment of fruitless groping in the icy water he managed to catch hold of her wrist.

With great care he tried to pulled her out. First came her arm, followed by the other arm and her shoulders. The cold had shocked the strength out of her and, try as she might, she couldn't make her arms work properly. They ended up stuck halfway, with her with her legs still dangling in the water until Mr. Carson seized a handful of her coat and rolled her up next to him.

He panted with the effort, but felt a surge of relief course through him when he realized she was free. There was a joyful noise from staff that had gathered and a smattering of applause from some of the boys, but they weren't out of it yet. She sputtered, spitting water all over him, but he couldn't have minded less. He held her upright as she coughed the worst of it away and he took in her ghastly pale face. No, they were not out of it at all.

They half crawled, half slid their way to the edge of the pond where a crowd of the staff were waiting for them.

"I'm al…alright," she muttered to no one in particular.

Mr. Carson knew better. "William, run back to the house as quick as you can and tell Mrs. Patmore we're coming. Get them to ring for Dr. Clarkson. We'll be right behind you."

William nodded and took off like a shot towards the Abbey.

"Mr. Carson," said Anna urgently, "we need to get her out of these wet things at once." The maid was right, already wayward pieces of hair were starting to freeze, and her clothing would be next.

"Gwen, round up the others and take them back by the main road. Anna, you and I will take her back to the house by taking the shortcut over the hill."

As Gwen hurried the others away, Anna began on the buttons to the housekeepers soaking coat. "Could you help me with this?" she asked him. Mr. Carson hesitated and Anna stared at him incredulously. "Mr. Carson, with all due respect, this is hardly the time for worrying about modesty!"

He gave himself a little shake. "Of course not," he said, looking to Mrs. Hughes with some degree of consternation. She nodded dumbly to him.

"Dress too," said Anna primly. The head housemaid was all business. "Then she can have my coat, and yours and that will have to do until we get her in the house."

Mr. Carson had the good sense not to argue, though he tried to avert his eyes as much as possible as they slipped off the housekeepers dress. She was still wearing about three layers between her corset and her underskirts, but as far as Mr. Carson was concerned she might as well be naked. He blushed furiously, embarrassed enough for the both of them. Gingerly they wrapped her in their dry coats, but the she shivered more violently than ever.

"Do you think you can walk?" he asked her hesitantly.

"Yes," she managed, through chattering teeth. She could, but only barely. Even supported on either side by the two of them it was slow going.

Too slow going, they were going to freeze solid at this rate. "Could we carry her?" Anna asked.

The only way to know was to find out. Mrs. Hughes gave a little squeak of protest, as Mr. Carson lifted her into his arms.

"There," he panted, "light as a feather." A lie, naturally. Mr. Carson may have been a strong man, but his back was not the same as it once was. It took enormous effort to carry her, despite her small stature, but it was something he was more than willing to do. It was much faster this way and the three of them made their way back to the house in short order.

The fasted way into the house from this approach was through the main doors and Mr. Carson didn't even think twice about it. Even Anna blanched a little at that, but certainly wasn't about to object.

Through the entrance Miss O'Brien and Mrs. Patmore were waiting for them.

"Oh my God, he wasn't kidding about you lot being icicles!" Mrs. Patmore's voice always went up in pitch when she was upset and this was no exception.

"We should get her upstairs," said Miss O'Brien practically, "into the tub so we can warm her up."

Mr. Carson couldn't agree more. The housekeeper's eyes were open, but glassy and he wasn't sure she was all there. His heart pounded painfully as he gulped down his fear. Miss O'Brien helped him in carrying her up the stairs and into the closest bathroom, followed by a handwringing Mrs. Patmore. It wasn't a servant's bath, but it couldn't be helped.

As they lowered her into the empty tub Mr. Carson noticed she wasn't shivering anymore. He didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, but it made him uneasy. He stepped outside to let the women do their work, but before he left he couldn't help himself. "Is she going to be alright?" he asked, hints of desperation creeping into his voice.

In a rare display of sympathy Sarah O'Brien paused and turned to Mr. Carson. "We'll sort her out," she said kindly, "don't worry." Then, curtly as ever, she shut the door in his face.

He stood in the hall for what felt like ages. From behind the door he could hear little of what was going on. There was the sound of muffled conversation, running water, pained groans, and at one point, crying. Her crying. The sound was painful to him, but it meant she was conscious and that was something.

After what felt like ages Mrs. Patmore appeared, properly shocked to see him standing outside the door. "What on earth are you doing standing about up here? Go downstairs, have a cup of tea and warm up you daft man!"

"But, but-" he objected, motioning towards the bathroom door.

"She'll be fine! Though I'd like Dr. Clarkson to take a look at her just to be sure. Now go downstairs!"

"You're sure?"

Mrs. Patmore leaned in and lowered her voice. "I am. I know you don't usually think much of her – Lord knows I don't – but Miss. O'Brien knows what she's doing with this one. I'll come fetch you when you can see her."

That was enough to satisfy him for now. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore."

An hour later the doctor had come and gone, declaring her 'well, if a little chilled' and wholeheartedly praising the efforts of the staff. At that, Mrs. Patmore finally summoned him back upstairs. "She in her bedroom," the cook explained, "she's been asking after you."

That thought warmed him slightly, and he gingerly opened the door to her bedroom. The room was unfamiliar as he'd never been in it before. It closely resembled his actually, save for the few more feminine touches.

She was sitting in bed, propped up on pillows and tucked underneath about six quilts. There was an additional pile of blankets on the floor – it would seem her maids had been a little overzealous in providing them. She smiled to see him in the doorway and beckoned him in with a little nod of her head.

There was more colour in her cheeks, but she still looked too pale for her. "How do you feel?" he asked gently.

"Well, as my Ma would have once said, 'like death warmed over.'"

She expected him to laugh, or at least give a pitying smile at her little attempt of a joke. He just stared at her. "It's not funny."

"Mr. Carson-" she began, but he silenced her with a stern look. He crossed the small room to sit on the bed beside her, taking her hands in his. She was momentarily speechless at his boldness.

"Never, ever, ever do that to me again," he said forcefully.

"Mr. Carson, I-"

"Elsie. Hughes. I mean it. Never. Again." He'd never been more earnest about anything in his entire life. She looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. He'd been absolutely terrified, she realized. Terrified of losing her.

This thought brought her overwhelming emotion and all thoughts of jokes were momentarily forgotten.

"I'm sorry." Her voice is small. Guilty. She'd caused him more pain than she'd realized. He cared more than she'd realized.

"It's alright," he said, stroking her hand. He was doing it more to comfort himself than to comfort her. He still needed reassurance that she was there. That she was safe.

"Thank you for what you did," she said softly. "I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."

"Well, you can start by promising to never go walking on frozen ponds ever again," he said firmly.

She smiled at him. "Now who's making jokes?" she teased.

"That was not a joke," he replied. "I'm serious, if I lost you-"

"Come now," she said, halting his melancholy thought with her warm reassurance. "I'm not lost, I'm right here."

"But you almost were." She cannot argue with that. Without him she surely would have drowned, she knew that. He squeezed her hands tight. "I don't think I ever would have recovered."

She shot him a look. "Don't be melodramatic."

"I'm not."

She blinked and realized he was serious. For the first time he was being truly forthcoming with her and she was dismissing him. Hadn't this been all she'd wanted from him for years? For him to let his guard down and just to tell her how he felt? Here he was doing exactly that, and she was so surprised she hadn't even recognized it.

"I understand," she said, inching her way closer to him.

"Do you?" he asked, searching her face intently.

"Yes," she said sincerely, "I do."

Her eyes shone and he knew that she meant it. Finally, somehow, they'd reached an understanding. There were no more words to be said so he leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth. Gently he stroked her cheek and a little flicker of warmth spread through her chest. As she pulled herself closer to him Mrs. Hughes didn't think she'd ever fear being cold again.

* * *

**Next up is Haunt Me. **


	8. Haunt Me

**Haunt Me: A drabble about one character watching over the other.**

**A/N This could have been quite melancholy, but that wasn't the direction I wanted for it. I may have deemphasized the word "over" in the prompt a little bit, but it's still there. **

* * *

**April 1900 **

The woman at the door is unfamiliar to him, but there she stands, back straight with a carpetbag in one hand and a small hatbox in the other. He thought her pretty, in a rather severe sort of way. Curly brown hair twisted up into a tight bun and bright blue eyes that glance surreptitiously around at everything in the driveway. Mr. Carson approached her with some confusion. "And you are?"

"Elsie Hughes," she says politely, "I believe Mrs. Black is expecting me?"

The new head housemaid, he'd completely forgotten. "Welcome, Miss Hughes," he says with a smile, "Charles Carson."

"Elsie?" she corrects him questioningly. He blinked in surprise. That was an odd mistake for him; of course she would be Elsie.

"Elsie," he affirms, ushering her inside.

* * *

**May 1900**

He is watching her again, as she beat the carpets in the front lawn. She smacks them with more vigor than any housemaid he'd ever seen. She is ruthlessly efficient, in everything really, he muses.

"Think she's settling in alright?" chimes in Mrs. Black, to his left. He jumps slightly. He had not meant to be caught staring, but the aging housekeeper did not seem to be perturbed by his indiscretion.

"Looks that way," he says, returning his gaze to the energetic housemaid, who is enjoying her task a little too much. She says something that makes another one of the maids laugh, and he smiles instinctively. "She seems to get on well with everyone."

Mrs. Black raises her eyebrows knowingly at him. "Indeed, Mr. Carson."

* * *

**September 1903**

She looks different. Obviously without her aprons and her caps she looks a little different, but it goes beyond that. He watches her walk down the hallway and it strikes him that the keys jangling at her hip aren't the only things that's altered.

There is something in her shoulders, they way she carries herself as she walks has changed. There's something in her voice when she speaks to the maids that he admires. She has a gentle, but pervasive authority that she has somehow mastered in no time at all.

It suits her.

* * *

**March 1909**

Sometimes he catches himself just looking at her hands at meals. She eats the way she does everything else, precise motions, never dawdling or mucking about.

He resists the urge to push his potatoes around his plate and wonders if she has ever, just once, played with her food. He's never seen it. Even when she is sick, or unhappy or unimpressed she still eats in the same deliberate, efficient manner.

That evening she catches him. He's missed whatever she has said because he was too focused on the way her fingers manipulated her knife and fork. She gives him a questioning glance before patiently repeating her statement.

Something about a new kitchen maid.

* * *

**January 1920**

He caught her out of the corner of his eye as he swept Lady Grantham around the floor. He should be focused on the elegant lady in his arms, not the housekeeper dancing with Lord Grantham, but surely the odd peek couldn't hurt. It will be her only dance of the night, if previous years were anything to go by and he so loves the look on her face when she dances.

That doesn't make sense to him, why none of the men of the house ever ask her to dance. If he were one of them he'd ask her in heartbeat. She is a lovely dancer. She moves with an ease he himself had never managed to find. He always felt a little mechanical, like a wind up toy completing memorized steps. Not her. She looks effortlessly happy as she sails by and he had to force his attention away, lest he be caught looking.

Cora purses her lips, trying to suppress the knowing smile that would give the game away. She purposefully ignores the way his eyes flit between hers and over her shoulder. She'd decided, years ago now, that it was harmless. Let the man look.

* * *

**September 1925**

His first thought was that she was even pretty when she cried, and his second thought was about how horribly inappropriate that thought was at a time like this.

He shouldn't intrude. It's her own private letter with her own private news, but it doesn't take a fortuneteller to know what it says. To know why she's devastated. Her bottom lip never saw such abuse as when she tried to hold back sobs. It's pointless anyways, the tears were already falling and so they should be.

He crosses the room and offers her his handkerchief. And then his hand.

He's all the family she's got now.

* * *

**June 1927 **

Her arm fits snuggly in his as they walk. Her stride lengthens and his shorten so that they fall in step together. It's natural from the beginning, as if they'd been doing it for years. Perhaps in a way, they had.

She's so small compared to him that the first time he holds her in his arms he fears he'll break her. He says as much and she laughs, heartily.

"I doubt that immensely, Mr. Carson." she reassures him. "They don't come tougher than me."

With that the worry is dismissed, as quickly as it came. She is sturdy in every respect. He doesn't know how he could ever have thought otherwise.

* * *

**August 1927 **

He sees her shadow grace the entrance to the church and his heart skips a beat or two. He saw her yesterday, and practically every day before that for the last twenty-seven years. There is no reason she should look so different to him today, but she does. She is wearing what she wears every Sunday to church, though clearly someone, Anna more than likely, has spruced up her hat some. She is trying to focus on walking, but she is all smiles and elated anticipation.

She looks radiant.

There are probably other people, their friends and colleagues sitting in the pews, but he does not see them. For a moment, she is the only person in his entire world.

They say a woman looks her loveliest on her wedding day. For today he is certain the saying is true.

* * *

**August 1927**

By the glow of the kerosene light he can just make out the curve of her shoulder and the dip of her waist. Her eyes have may have fluttered closed already, but he fights to keep his open, so that he might look at her just a moment longer. There is so much that he'd never known before. The adorable freckles scattered across her chest; the tiny white scar on her abdomen; the beige birthmark on her knee. Her hair is tangled and her lips have turned red from their shared kisses. She gives a little sigh, and he is privy to a look of contentment he's never seen on her face before.

She murmurs sleepily at him. It's incoherent, affectionate nonsense. He places a little kiss on her forehead and is gratified to see her smile in response. He pulls her closer and she snuggles happily in to his embrace.

There is so much he'd never known before.

* * *

**December 1934**

He sits in the kitchen, a cup of tea in one hand, watching her turn the pages of her book. She's curled up in her favourite chair next to the fireplace, and is completely absorbed in whatever it is she's reading. He's sure because her mouth turns down into a concentrated little frown whenever she is particularly focused When she gets stuck on a particular idea her lower lip disappears between her teeth, a habit that years of kisses and gentle chiding has not changed in the slightest.

She wears her hair loser now than she ever did when they were in service. It had gone grey years ago, but it had taken some time before she was comfortable to leave it down when they were alone. Of course, discovering her husband liked to run his fingers through it had helped. She tucks a stray piece behind her ear, unaware of how much she has captivated him. She's a vision in a worn floral housecoat, with a quilt tucked around her knees.

She looks up at him suddenly, and her eyes meet his loving gaze. "What is it?" she asks, curious.

His smile could not be more sincere. "You're beautiful."

* * *

**Probably not what the prompt wanted of me, but what it ended up inspiring. You know what's also inspiring? Your reviews. They've been lovely so far, please keep them coming. They make me very happy. Next one is Invite Me. **


	9. Invite Me

**Invite Me: A drabble about one character asking the other to…**

**This prompt trails off, I think unintentionally (none of the others do). No matter. I've always loved 'first date-esque' plots in fics, and this prompt inspired me to write one of my own. This one takes place immediately after the S4CS. So it's technically a beach tag! As well as a nod to Carson's time on the stage. Seriously, this fic: half a dozen birds, one stone. **

**This story is monstrous in length for this collection. I offer no excuses and make no apologies. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

The Brighton train platform was not very crowded for a Thursday evening, even with the addition of the Downton staff. Mr. Carson gazed around at them with pride, pleased that they all had enjoyed themselves. He'd felt it was a bit of a defeat that they had to settle for a day at the seaside, but clearly he was the only one that thought so. He himself had enjoyed the day more than anticipated, thanks in no small part to the housekeeper with whom he'd spent half the afternoon holding hands. She thought herself very clever with her postcards and her coy remarks, but he knew better. Perhaps he should resent her for trying to trick him into thinking it was his idea, but he couldn't manage it. If anything he was impressed she'd been as discreet as she was, not to mention appreciative of the fact that she allowed him to take credit for the arrangements in front of the staff, when they both knew full well who was really responsible.

He caught sight of her as he scanned the platform again. A poster on the wall had clearly captured her attention. He walked up behind her to read the advertisement over her shoulder and was surprised to see it was for the Winter Garden Theatre.

Mrs. Hughes took note of him. "Beautiful building isn't it?" she remarked.

He gave a nod of agreement. Very beautiful and very familiar to him, but she couldn't possibly have known that. She turned her attention back to the ad, inspecting the photograph more carefully. "I wonder if it's so imposing in real life."

He was surprised. It was a rather important building, architecturally and otherwise. "You've never seen it?" he asked. "Not even walked into the lobby or seen from the street?"

She laughed at him, "and what would I be doing wandering around London, poking my nose into theatre lobbies?"

"Well, when you put it like that."

"Some of us live a more rural existence than you, Mr. Carson," she pointed out, smoothing out her skirt. "Which is fine, I suppose," she added as an afterthought. For a fraction of a second she looked wistful, something he was unused to seeing in her. It occurred to him that she was always very keen to hear of his 'London stories' as she'd dubbed them. He'd never put much stock in that, thinking the two of them rather alike in attitude and lifestyle, at least nowadays. True, they were both heads of the household, but during the season he got more than his fill of London, whereas she almost never had cause to leave Yorkshire.

"Mr. Carson?" she said rather sharply, dragging him abruptly out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"The train," she explained, gesturing to the steam engine that had pulled up while he had been a million miles away. "Perhaps you'd like to get on it?"

"Right," he said, giving himself a little shake. It had been a long day in the sun, but that was no excuse for not paying attention. With one last glance at the poster he followed her aboard the train.

* * *

He listened to the wheels clickity-clack against the tracks and contemplated the woman sitting beside him. She stared out the window at the scenery passing by, looking quite content really. The sun agreed with her, and he wished that he had an excuse to reach for her hand again. He couldn't think of an explanation to give her, other than that he just wanted to hold it.

He tried as best he could to put the notion out of his mind, thinking instead about her interest in the Winter Garden Theatre poster. She kindly avoided the subject of the theatre, out of respect for him (or possibly to escape his ill temper, which flared whenever the subject was raised). He remembered back, a very long time ago now, her telling him that she'd never seen a show. Still wounded from his time in the Cheerful Charlies he had not thought this a great loss on her part at the time. Now, on the other hand, he wondered if it wasn't a shame that she'd never known the magical workings of a stage production.

They weren't to head back to Downton for a few days yet. They did have to prepare a few things for the move, but they were actually quite ahead of schedule this year, thanks to Mrs. Hughes leading the packing. There wasn't any reason they might not slip out for a short bit of sightseeing before they left. He would have to pay a visit to an old haunt and see if something might be arranged.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked his plan. He glanced furtively at the housekeeper and hoped very much that she would to.

* * *

"Mrs. Hughes, I was wondering if you'd care to join me tomorrow night for a walk." He had practiced the phrase several times in his mind, trying to find the tone that was neither too familiar nor too stilted. In his opinion he'd succeeded. The housekeeper was momentarily taken-aback by the request before breaking into a brilliant smile.

"Certainly, Mr. Carson," she said. "Are we going anywhere specific?"

He hoped so, but he was not willing to make promises he might not be able to keep. "Nothing set in stone, Mrs. Hughes. Just a…bit of sightseeing."

She studied him carefully, but he gave her no hints. "Alright," she said eventually. She would just have to wait and see.

He beamed at her. "Wonderful."

* * *

The next day the upstairs dinner had run long, leaving them all delayed below stairs. Mrs. Hughes had all but given up on the prospect of their little walk when Mr. Carson appeared.

"Well, they're all seen to." he said, pleased with himself. "Shall we go?"

She was surprised to see him still so keen. "Why the sun's all but set! How do you propose we sightsee in the dark, Mr. Carson?"

He smiled at her. "Well, there are these marvellous inventions called street lamps, perhaps you are familiar?"

She rolled her eyes at him, lecturing _her_ on technology. "Yes, I'm well aware but-"

"And," he said, interrupting her, "we won't need too much light for you to see what I want to show you."

She frowned, clearly puzzled. "You are very mysterious at times, Mr. Carson. What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Nothing more clever than a postcard, Mrs. Hughes," he said pointedly.

"You caught on to that did you?"

"I am not a complete fool, Mrs. Hughes," he said, with mock indignation. "You are the only person that would have the audacity to put something on my bulletin board, and only one reason for doing it."

She laughed lightly. "You caught me then."

"This time," he admitted. "So, shall we?" He was rather anxious to get them on their way, before she changed her mind about this.

"Let me just fetch my hat," she said, a flutter of excitement rising in her chest. _Calm down woman, it's just a walk, _she thought, in an attempt to quell her nerves. _A walk is never just a walk, _her mother used to say, though in that instance she'd been warning her daughter about young lads that were keen to press their advantage, not handsome butlers that were the very pinnacle of decorum.

* * *

It was not entirely dark as they set out along the cobblestone streets, but the street lamps were lit and sure to be needed quite shortly. Once they'd rounded the corner and were out of sight from the house he paused, trying to decided if he should voice his next request. She looked at him inquiringly.

"What is it now?" she asked. He'd been rather odd all day and she wondered secretly if their afternoon at the beach hadn't given him a bit of a turn. He was all over the place since they'd come back, at times pensive, cheeky, nervous, and excitable.

"It's just…I was wondering if I might hold your hand again?"

"I've told you, you can always hold my hand," she said slipping her hand into his.

"If I need to feel steady," he said, parroting her earlier words.

"Or any other time you like," said Mrs. Hughes warmly, "I'm not fussy." She smiled inwardly at the look of relief and satisfaction on his face. She had wondered if perhaps she had pushed him a little too much on their afternoon at the seaside, but now she could see that it had been exactly what he needed. A little confidence that she would be receptive to whatever he decided to do next.

Actually, what had he decided to do next? She had no idea where he was leading her. "Mr. Carson, where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," he said cheerfully, "but I think you'll like it."

She was a little thrilled at this. She was not used to not knowing things, and to her surprise she found it rather exciting to be completely in the dark for once. She squeezed his hand a little tighter as they made their way through the winding city streets. She didn't know London very well and after a few minutes she was well and truly lost. Without him, she doubted she would even be able to find her way back to the house. It didn't matter; she didn't plan on letting him out of her sight.

"Not much further now," he told her as they turned onto Drury Lane. He checked his pocket watch surreptitiously. Seven thirty. Perfect timing.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed, taking in the building towering above them, "this is it isn't?"

He smiled, "yes this is it. The Winter Garden Theatre."

"It's beautiful," she said, staring at it in awe. For a moment they just stood there looking up, letting the noise from the various patrons that were entering the building wash around them. She squeezed his arm gently. "Thank you," she said softly. "It's was very nice of you to bring me here."

"We're not finished yet, Mrs. Hughes."

"We're not?" she said, looking at him in confusion.

"You've only seen the outside," he remarked, "wouldn't you like to go in? Very difficult to watch the show from out here."

"Charles Carson, don't be ridiculous! We can't waltz in there with all those people?" What on earth was he, mad? They didn't have the money, at least not the sort that they can afford to throw away on this sort of thing. Even if they had, neither of them was remotely dressed for it in their work clothes.

"You're absolutely right, as usual, Mrs. Hughes," he said, plainly anticipating her reaction. "Better go round the back."

Before she could object he led her around the side of the building and they slipped through an open gate into a back alley.

"Mr. Carson, are you sure about this? I feel like we shouldn't be here." The whole thing had her feeling nervous and he gave her a reassuring pat on the arm.

"Not to worry, they're expecting us." He knocked smartly on the back door and gave her a conspiring smile. A moment later the door swung open, revealing a very short man, dressed all in black and sporting a rather impressive grey moustache.

"Charlie Carson! I'm so pleased you actually came!" exclaimed the man, practically bouncing up and down. "I wondered when I woke up this morning if our conversation weren't all a dream."

"As real as can be, Eddie. Is everything in order?"

"Yes, yes. Come in, come in!" Eddie said excitedly, "And you must be Mrs. Hughes. Charlie told me you'd be coming of course, but he completely failed to mention how beautiful you'd be! My my!"

"Eddie!" snapped Mr. Carson, appalled at his friend's lack of manners.

"Didn't mean a thing by it Charlie, you know I didn't!" he insisted. He turned to Mrs. Hughes, "Goodness, he's touchy when it comes to you isn't he? You know I didn't mean nothing by it luv, happily married I am. Some of us theatre folks are! Contrary to _popular_ _belief!"_

Mrs. Hughes could only gape at the animated fellow that barely came up to her shoulder. He spoke about a mile and minute and had far too much energy for one person. The only coherent thought she could muster was that he might get along very well with Mrs. Patmore.

"Well, don't stand in the doorway looking like bumps on a log! Come on in! Show's about to get started."

"After you," said Mr. Carson, stepping aside. Not knowing what else to do she swallowed nervously and followed Eddie through the backstage door.

Inside was dark, cramped and about ten degrees warmer than it had been outside. Mrs. Hughes felt Mr. Carson's hand on the small of her back as he guided her down the twisting passage.

"Stage left wing, just past the prompt corner, straight up to the catwalk. There are two chairs set up as close to the proscenium arch as possible." Eddie whispered. Mrs. Hughes looked to Mr. Carson in bewilderment, but he seemed to know exactly what his friend was saying.

"You're a marvel Eddie, thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Once you're up, you'll have to wait until it's all over before coming back down or I can't guarantee I won't hit you with the curtain. Or a set piece. The fellas they got on the rigging for this one are right idiots Charlie, I'm telling you."

"Just keep the roof from falling on our heads and we'll take care of the rest." Mr. Carson insisted.

"Sure thing," grinned Eddie. The sound of instruments tuning filled the air and Eddie gave a little jump. "Alright, that my cue to get into position. You kids have fun now, I'll see you after."

"This way," said Mr. Carson with a smile. Mrs. Hughes was still speechless and thoroughly overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle around them. Every which way, actors and stagehands were running about, paying them absolutely no attention what so ever.

He led her to the corner of the wings via the most direct route possible. It was strange that even after decades of being away from this place he still knew exactly how to navigate it as if he'd been here yesterday. She, on the other hand, looked completely flummoxed and followed him blindly. He stopped short. "Oh," he said looking up. "How well can you climb a ladder in your skirt?"

"What!?"

He frowned. "It may be necessary. I hadn't thought of that."

"No" she sputtered, "I mean…I can climb just fine, but why-"

"Perfect, follow me."

"Mr. Carson, I'm not sure I understand what's happening."

He turned to her, his warm brown eyes searching hers. "Do you trust me?" he asked.

She stared up at him in astonishment. What an incredibly strange evening this was turning out to be! He looked so worried and so sincere. How could she allow him to think that she didn't trust him? "I do trust you, Mr. Carson. Without a doubt."

"Here then," he said, placing her hands on the wall. "Feel this?" She did. There was a series of rungs bolted to the wall that extended upwards. "Just climb up until you reach the platform. I'll be right behind you."

There was nothing for it; she did as she was told. The rungs were sturdy and surprisingly easy to climb. In no time at all she was up the platform. He appeared behind her, panting ever so slightly.

"What now?" she asked, exhilarated by their little exertion.

"It's time the lady was shown to her seat," he said cheerfully. "I believe that's them over there."

He pointed at two chairs on a far platform beside the wall. Between them ran an open catwalk, with a low railing on either side.

"What if I fall?" She didn't want to admit to being afraid, but it did look rather rickety.

He grinned at her. "What if a bomb goes off? What if we're hit by a falling star?" he teased.

"You are impossible," she said incredulously. "Absolutely impossible."

"I'll be right behind you," he promised her, "and it's much stronger than it looks."

Gingerly she stepped out on to the catwalk and took a few experimental steps. When it became clear that the structure was sound she grew more confident and made her way happily across.

"It was easy!" she exclaimed when they'd reached the other side.

He beamed at her. "You're quite brave, Mrs. Hughes, and a very good sport."

"You didn't give me much choice, Mr. Carson."

"Indeed. Now, here we are madam," he said in his best butler voice, "your seat for the evening." She had to suppress a giggle as he took her hand and guided her carefully and completely unnecessarily into one of the chairs. He sat down next to her, never letting go of her hand. She'd told him he could hold it whenever he liked, and he certainly wanted to now.

She watched everything below with fascination. They were sitting some twenty feet up along the side, with a great red curtain extending out across the front of the stage. She could see men moving large panels of wood into various positions, carefully marking out the angles. Beyond the red curtain she could hear the muffled sounds of people in the audience talking and finding their way to their seats. She couldn't see them of course, but there was a buzz in the air that she couldn't begin to describe.

"Now, will you explain all of this to me?" she said, eyes dancing in excitement.

"We're here to watch the show," he said. "You said you'd never seen one before and when I saw you looking at the poster I thought you should. Eddie, as you may have guess is the stage manager, he helped me arrange our rather unusual seating for tonight. Eddie was one of the only bridges I didn't burn when I left."

"You performed here?" she asked quietly.

"For a short time. At the height of our act, it was part of a revue here." It was more detail than he'd ever shared with her about his time as a performer. He'd changed in this respect; no longer was he angry or upset when looking back on this chapter of his life. He'd eventually let go of his shame when it became clear his past didn't bother anyone but him. She had made it clear it didn't bother her. If anything she was tickled by the thought of him singing and dancing for people.

A man on the platform directly opposite of them pulled a pulley, lifting a huge flat depicting an ocean all the way up above the stage.

"Was he serious? Eddie, I mean," asked Mrs. Hughes.

"About what?"

"Being hit by a set piece."

Mr. Carson laughed. "Eddie's always complaining about the rigging, he's a perfectionist extraordinaire on the subject."

The lights started to dim, and a hush fell over the audience. "It's starting," she whispered to him, squeezing his hands in excitement. They could see the actors taking their places behind the curtain. There was nothing quite like those few moments before the curtain was pulled back. The atmosphere was indescribable, but he knew she could feel it just as he could. Then the overture started and they were swept away. The show was a new one; it had only opened a week ago. _The Beauty Prize _turned out to be equal parts funny and convoluted. There were so many characters it was difficult to keep track of them all. The show centred around two lovers, kept apart by a series of increasingly ridiculous complications. The story line was contrived and the musical numbers mediocre at best, but she watched in starry-eyed delight as the production unfolded. There were so many moving pieces that all fit together so perfectly, and the effect on stage seemed quite marvellous to her.

"They're wonderful," she whispered to him.

"Who?" he asked, glancing around at the performers and stagehands as the entire set changed from a kitchen to the deck of ship in a matter of moments.

"All of them," she said, unable to tear her eyes away, "it's incredible. Like magic."

He'd hoped she would like it, but she was even more taken with it then he had imagined. By the end of the third act it was impossible to say which of the two of them was more enchanted, her watching the performance or him watching her.

As the curtain closed for the last time she turned to him. "Mr. Carson, I don't even know what to say."

"I'm glad you liked it. I wanted to get you a seat in the real audience, right down there, front and center but-"

"No," she said tenderly, shaking her head. "No, these are the best seats in the house." She leaned over to kiss him gently on the cheek and was delighted to see him blush a brilliant shade of pink. "Thank you," she whispered, "it was wonderful. And Mr. Carson, if this is your idea of courting a woman it's working."

He jumped a little at her accusation, clearly flustered. "I didn't mean to be so- wait…working?"

She regarded him with some amusement. "That _was_ the point of this evening, wasn't it?"

He looked down at their entwined hands. "Yes, I believe it was," he admitted.

"Then consider it a success, Mr. Carson."

He met her eyes again, and saw no embarrassment or reason to be flustered there. She was, as ever, steady and sure of herself. And sure of him, he could see that now. She gazed at him so lovingly and there was nothing more that he wanted to do than…

"May I?"

"Yes," she said, leaning in. He cupped her cheek and kissed her softly. It was gentle kiss from a gentleman, for he worried, even now, about frightening her. She kissed him back with purpose, trying to validate every feeling he'd ever had for her. Her response worked, and he let go of his fear. He pulled her close, kissing her with all the passion he'd kept locked up for so many years. She melted into him, for there was no magic, staged or otherwise, that could compete with his kiss.

"Oi!" yelled Eddie from below. "Are you two quite finished?"

They broke apart, both half laughing, half shocked. The stage manager was grinning up at them. "I mean you can stay up there all night if you _like _but-"

"We're coming down!" exclaimed Mr. Carson, before his friend could finish his, likely rather scandalous, sentence. He took her by the hand and let the way back across the catwalk. Gingerly they climbed down the ladder to the floor.

"Well, looks like you two enjoyed it. Did you catch any of the show or were you too busy making eyes at each other?"

"Eddie!"

"The show was wonderful," said Mrs. Hughes, putting a calming hand on Mr. Carson's chest. "Everything was wonderful."

"I'll bet," Eddie grinned. "Now I'm sorry, I've got to go whip this lot into shape," he said gesturing at a few of the stagehands, "or they'll have hit the liquor before everything is tidied up. You know what they's like. Not respectable like you and me, eh Charlie?"

"If you say so," said Mr. Carson reaching out to shake his friends hand. "Eddie thank you again for this."

"Anytime," said Eddie, "just invite me to the wedding, alright? I'm only teasin'! Sort of! Alright! Good night!" With that Eddie bounded away, yelling at the crew about this and that.

"You'll have to excuse him," Mr. Carson murmured. "He's a good sort, really."

"I can see that," said Mrs. Hughes. "Not to worry, he's charming."

"There's a nice word for it," said Mr. Carson. "Come this way." He put his hand on the small of her back again and led her through the narrow corridors until they reached a door that deposited them outside. They both took a few large gulps of the evening air, feeling very changed and very happy with how the evening had gone.

"We ought to head back," he said, regretfully.

She slipped her arm around him and looked up at him happily. "Lead the way."

They walked back towards the house in comfortable silence, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, hers wrapped around his waist. It took longer, and wasn't as easy to walk this way, but they didn't care. He just wanted to touch as much of her as possible.

They both instinctively stopped before they came in sight of the house. He bent to kiss her again, revelling in this newfound privilege. Then he pulled away and looked at her almost shyly. "I don't want to rush this," he said hesitantly.

"Then don't." she said simply. "There's no need." Her eyes twinkled merrily, "but twenty years could hardly be called rushing things."

He blushed. "You know what I meant."

"I do. And I quite agree," she said sensibly. "Don't worry, we'll sort it out at our own pace."

She was so practical about absolutely everything. He loved her for it. Gingerly he brushed his fingers across her cheek, sending a little shiver down her spine.

"You're marvellous," he said, "do you have any idea how much I love you?"

She pretended to think about this for a moment before reaching up and pulling him into and adoring kiss. One that would leave him with absolutely no question as to how much she loved him. When they finally broke apart, breathless, she smiled at him. "I think I do, Mr. Carson. I think I do."

* * *

**The end. Whew! Are you still with me? I hope you liked it. Leave me a review and let me know. Next one is Join Me. **

**By the way, the theatre and the show are both real. _The Beauty Prize_ debuted at the Winter Garden Theatre (Today known as the ****New London Theatre**) on Sept. 5th 1923. Apparently it was very mediocre, but would probably still be somewhat impressive to Mrs. Hughes unrefined tastes. 


	10. Join Me

**Join Me: A drabble about one character giving the other an offer.**

**Did you think I had forgotten you? Not so. This one takes place in the happy little head cannon that is the future Chelsie marriage/retirement/cottage livin'. Featuring grumpy Charles and flirtatious Elsie. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Elsie, it is too hot for words. Why are we doing this again?"

Elsie sighed. They had been walking for all of three minutes and he had already started complaining. "Because it's good for us to get out of the house at least once a day. You know that." Dr. Clarkson had even recommended it to them, but pointing that out was not likely to buoy his spirits.

Charles harrumphed but said nothing. Elsie rolled her eyes at him. "Is it so much of an imposition go for a little walk with your wife on your arm?"

"It is when it's boiling outside," he grumped. She frowned. Usually teasing reminders that they were married made him forget about whatever he was bothered with. At least that's what had worked steadily for the last four months. But it was July now and he was tremendously irritable. The summer heat had always bothered him, but exhibiting such an attitude in front of the staff at Downton would have been unacceptable. For thirty summers as the butler of Downton Abbey he had kept his opinion on warm weather to himself. Now that he was retired, years of pent up frustration on the subject were free to spill forth and they certainly did. Elsie was growing quite sick of it really.

His irritation wasn't entirely baseless; it was tremendously hot. More so than any summer she could remember. They'd only been walking for a few minutes when she was wishing for a cool glass of water. Or better yet, a bath. But she was the instigator of this little endeavor and was not about to be the one to turn them around.

Still. It was almost unbearable. The dirt on the path rose in little clouds of dust as they walked and grass had all but withered away. It hadn't rained for an unusually long time and without a cloud in the sky, it didn't look like it was about to anytime soon.

They reached the end of the lane, where the field gave way to trees. Normally they would turn and walk a great arching circle back to the cottage, but Elsie had another idea.

"Let's go down to the pond instead," she suggested.

He looked at her skeptically. "That's even further than we'd usually go."

"Yes, but it's through the trees so you'll have some shade," she reasoned. "And when we get there you can stick a toe in the water, cool off a little bit."

If she insisted that they walk this did seem like a more agreeable option. Charles nodded his assent and they set off through the trees. It was nicer to walk in the shade, even if the trail was uneven. He let go of her arm and let her lead as the path narrowed. Her enthusiasm for their venture outmatched his, but he could not pretend that he didn't enjoy watching her as they made their way. After a few minutes, at a pace that he would not call leisurely, they arrived.

Pond was perhaps a bit of an understatement for the body of water before them, but it was hardly large enough to be called a lake. Charles reckoned it was at least twelve feet deep in the middle, if not more. If he'd discovered it at fifteen he probably would have tried to rig up a rope swing off one of the surrounding oak trees. Now he was content to sit on one of large flat rocks along the edge and watch the water. Elsie plunked herself down next to him and in no time at all had taken of her shoes and her stockings.

"What are you doing now?" he asked her in surprise.

"Dipping my toes in, remember? Did you think I was joking?"

"Kind of," he said, watching her. How anyone had so much energy on such a warm day was beyond him.

She hiked her skirts up well above her ankles and went wading though a little shallow patch along the edge. She had to move carefully, as the rocks were quite slippery but the cool water felt lovely. "You should try it," she urged him.

He shook his head. "Be careful," he warned her.

"What's the worst thing that could happen? That I get a leech?" she teased, knowing full well the creatures bothered him far more than they bothered her.

"No," said stubbornly, "you might-"

His words were interrupted by her yelp as she lost her footing and went tumbling down into the water with a splash.

"fall." he finished weakly. "Are you all right, my dear?"

Luckily for her, though unluckily for her clothing, she'd fallen where the depth dropped off some and was entirely unhurt. She was however, soaked though, and started to laugh good-naturedly.

"I'm fine," she said, testing all of her limbs to ensure that was indeed the case.

"Your dress," Charles worried.

"Will also be fine," she insisted as she climbed back onto dry land. It was a bit heavy and she was mighty thankful that she'd ditched her corset for good years back. "Though perhaps we better lay it out to dry on a rock before going home." She started fiddling with her buttons.

"Elsie!" said Charles, scandalized, "what if someone were to come by?"

"No one is going to come by, we're as isolated as it gets."

She had a fair point, but it still seemed rather risqué to him. She shot him a pointed look. "Would you rather me trudge back to the house soaking wet, with the fabric clinging?" she asked.

He looked at her sheepishly. "I suppose not."

"Besides," she said, slipping out of the garment. "It's a beautiful day for a swim." She arranged her dress neatly on a rock and clad in only her slip she went back into the water. "It's lovely Charles, you should join me."

He chuckled at her. "That seems a poor bathing costume, love."

She smiled mischievously at him. "You're right, of course." And then she disappeared underneath the surface.

He stared at the spot where she'd ducked under the water, but it was impossible to see her. Moments later her head reappeared with a ball of fabric in her right hand.

"Elsie, what on earth?!"

She flung it towards him, and it landed several feet short with a wet thud. "There," she said, clearly delighted with herself. "A much better bathing costume, wouldn't you agree?"

He bent to retrieve her slip, smiling slightly. "I wouldn't know, I cannot see it."

"Better come in and inspect it then," she teased.

"You're ridiculous," he said, shaking his head at his wife. "I'll stick my ankles in, but no more."

Charles slipped off his shoes and Elsie pouted at him. "You're no fun," she complained.

"I'm dry," Charles remarked. "You were already wet and that's one thing, but I'm not." He let out a groan of approval as he stuck his feet into the water. She was right it was quite nice.

"See, it's lovely. Come for a swim."

"No."

She swam away from him with an exaggerated sigh. Charles rolled his eyes and tipped his head skyward, taking in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. He loosened his collar a little more. There was no need for it to be buttoned up so tight when they were alone.

"You're sure?" she called from across the pond.

"Yes," he replied, not even looking at her.

WHACK! Something wet hit him in the side of the head, startling the wits out of him. He looked down to discover a piece of fabric in his hands. Her brassiere.

"How about now?" she called triumphantly. "You can't claim you're dry now."

He stared at her, trying unsuccessfully to keep the grin off his face. "Elsie Carson, you are a wicked woman."

"Oh yes, wanton, wayward and in every way disrespectable. Now are you coming in or not?" She smirked at him, knowing by the look in his eyes that'd she'd won. He never could resist her, not when she had her mind made up.

He stood slowly, unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm going to make you pay for that, Mrs. Carson," he said in mock seriousness. Stepping out of his trousers, he dove in after her. Surely he could dream up a suitable punishment for his charming and beautiful wife.

* * *

**I'll leave said punishment to your delightful imaginations. My Mrs. Hughes has a tendency to go falling into bodies of water. At least it was summer this time! Next up: Kill Me. Brace yourselves. **


	11. Kill Me

**Kill Me: A drabble about one character killing the other. **

**Warning: major character death. **

**This is another one where the prompt is not taken entirely literally. Be aware that this story is very far removed from the fluff you might be used to with this collection. If that does not sound like fun for you, best to skip it. **

**Thank you to chelsie fan, for her opinions on early drafts of this piece and for helping me bring it to what I wanted it to be. **

* * *

Charles put another log on the fire. It hadn't burned down much, but it wouldn't do for the room to get cold. Approaching the bed he peeled back the blankets, revealing the shoulders of his sleeping wife.

His dying wife.

He ran his fingers lightly across her exposed collarbones. She'd become so thin that they stuck out sharply beneath pale papery skin. Her body had betrayed her, and the battle was lost before she even knew it had begun. In two months she'd gone from the vibrant, robust woman that he had happily married a decade ago to a mere shadow of herself.

Her eyes fluttered and rolled back in her head. "Charles…" she murmured. "Charles?"

He took her hand, hoping to reassure her with his presence. It was cool to touch, and he tried to warm it by cradling it in both of his own.

"I'm right here, Elsie. Everything will be all right." It was a lie as far as he was concerned, but a comforting one. Everything was most certainly not 'all right'. Her breathing was growing worse and she kept slipping in and out of consciousness against her will, never properly existing in either.

"No," she rasped. "Make it stop."

This was a common refrain from her recently. The medication sitting on the side table was supposed to help, but Charles got the distinct impression that it did less and less with each passing day.

"…it stop." she implored him, either not bothering or not able to say the entire sentence this time. Even her voice was not her own anymore, her beautiful brogue that he so adored impeded by the constant dryness of her throat. He moved to bring the cup of water to her lips, but it dribbled uselessly down her chin. She hadn't eaten more than broth in a week, and now even drinking water was a challenge. He gave up on the glass and pressed a wet cloth to her cracked lips instead, allowing a tiny bit of liquid to trickle into her mouth.

"Please," she whispered, barely audible. This was a rare moment of lucidity for her, in a morphine-filled haze of misery.

"I wish I could my love, but there's nothing I can do." Even as he spoke the words he struggled to accept them. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, trying to ease the pain that no medication would touch. She stared off into space, giving him no indication that she'd heard him or that she was aware of the gesture. He stroked her cheek affectionately before resuming his place in the chair beside their bed.

"Charles?" she said finally. "Do…do you love me?"

This was something else she kept saying. The doctor told him that she was just confused, that it was the pain medication, but he wasn't so sure.

"Elsie, I love you more than anything." he reassured her. It was his default response, one he repeated continually, but it was no less sincere now. Of course he loved her. They had spent so long with their true feelings unspoken, that every day they were married he had made a point of informing her how much he loved her. Every morning he would tell her how happy he was to wake up next to his beautiful wife, and every evening he would delight in pulling her onto his lap and whispering sweet words in her ear. It pained him to think she could forget his love for her, even if only for a moment.

On the day that she'd awoke to find a lump in her breast, he had held her as she cried, reminding her that he loved her and that he would stand with her, whatever was to come. When the doctor had confirmed their worst fears, she had held him as he wept for the inevitable, reminding him that she loved him and would be with him always.

Now as she lay dying, in the bed that they had shared, he found their entire life together seemed surreal. He had never imagined one could love another person as much as he loved her. He had never imagined she could loved him back so much either, but she did. They may have admitted it later in life than some, but they had cherished it all the more for that.

"You love me…" she said slowly. "You love me."

"Yes, Elsie. I love you."

She seemed placated by that, and her eyes fluttered closed again. He slipped his hand in hers again and she squeezed it, as she often did. He assumed it was to reassure him that she was still awake. He ran his thumb idly across the back of her hand. When it became clear that she was going to rest like this for a little while he let his mind wander.

Watching her suffer broke him in a way he had not thought possible. There was nothing he could do but hold her hand and pray. At first it had been for hope, for a reason to believe the inevitable wasn't coming, but that was long gone now. Then he'd prayed for the strength he needed to help her face her own mortality when news went from bleak to dismal. Now more than anything, he prayed (selfishly, he thought) for the courage to say goodbye. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to navigate through this strange and terrible process without her help. She had always been his compass when the seas were stormy. That aspect of their relationship had been solidified years, decades even, before their confessions of love and pledges of fidelity. But now she was in no fit state to tell him what to do.

She came to with a start, distressed by something, but he didn't know what.

"I'm sorry," she choked out, her face crumpled in agony. "I'm sorry." Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes and seeped into her hair, which fell loose and unkempt in ringlets around her face. He ran his fingers lovingly through her locks, trying to calm her.

"Shhh, it's all right love. You don't have to be sorry." Her guilt was almost palpable, but what she felt the need to apologize for was beyond him. None of this was her fault. Did she not know that?

"You love me," she whispered again. "I'm trying… I'm sorry."

Charles had always known that his wife was a determined woman. He had not realized quite how determined until now. She was trying, with every fibre of her being, to hold onto a life that was all but gone. Not for her, for him. It wasn't fair. As the physical pain slowly loosened her grip and battered her will, guilt asserted itself and refreshed her efforts. She had to know that her love could not keep her with him forever, no matter how much she thought he needed her. That wasn't about to stop her from trying.

Crying made everything hurt more and she fought, and failed, to keep the anguish off her face. He wiped her tears away, his heart breaking. True to form, she was still doing her best to take care of him, even on her deathbed. In her attempt to do so, she'd inadvertently guided him to the correct answer one last time. It was time for her to move on. It was time for him to let her go.

They had spent ten years happily married and he had loved and cherished her since even before that. She had given him everything already. There was no need for her to give any more. His fear of losing her may not have dissipated entirely in that instant, but it became obscured by his overwhelming desire for her pain to end. She was not to suffer a moment longer than she had to on his account.

He reached out to stroke her cheek, searching for the words. "Elsie… it's alright."

She blinked slowly, not understanding. "You… love me," she muttered absently, trying to remind herself of her purpose.

"Yes," he said very quietly. "I love you. And you have made me so happy." His voice cracked, and he squeezed her hand gently. It was a moment before he was steady enough to continue. "But you don't have to do this for me. I don't want you to do this for me."

He meant it, undeniably and with all his heart.

"Do you understand?" he asked her. She didn't respond, but the little furrow that he'd thought permanently etched in her brow disappeared. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her carefully into his arms. She relaxed into him, her head against his chest, and a quiet peace settled over the pair of them. This was all she had been waiting for, to know that he was ready. Only then was she brave enough to let go. As her shallow breathing grew slower and she slipped away, he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, and leaned in to whisper one last time in her ear. One last murmur of affection for her to take with her.

"Until we meet again, my love."

* * *

**A/N The next prompt is Love Me. I will try to post it in short order, but if you have feedback for this one, by all means let me hear it. **


	12. Love Me

**Love Me: A fluffy drabble about our characters. **

**I did not expect so many touching responses to the last chapter, thank you all so much. I don't deserve you people. It strikes me now that the last three chapters could conceivably exist in the same timeline forming a little trilogy. The pattern breaks here though; I'll not be imposing my artistic interpretation of Charles and Elsie in life after death on you. **

**Instead, a version of the first 'I love you.' Enjoy.**

* * *

Breakfast, in Mr. Carson's opinion, ought to be a rather quiet affair. It was a gentle, dignified activity designed to prepare one for the day ahead and nothing else. This was the impression he'd hoped to make on the new head housemaid they'd hired to officially fill Anna's old role. Thankfully the rest of the staff, unbeknownst to them, co-operated with this objective and everyone that morning was fairly reserved. He hadn't needed to do anything to ensure the new girl got the right idea about how things were done at Downton. Which was a relief, he felt a headache coming on and was not in the mood for giving a lecture on orderly behavior.

To his right, Mrs. Hughes held up the pot of tea questioningly at him. He hadn't even realized his cup was empty. He nodded to her and she poured in silence. Mrs. Hughes was never particularly talkative at breakfast. Perhaps the new maid was looking to her as the example.

He watched her as she spooned in a bit of sugar and pushed the cup towards him. It was terrible he knew, but Mr. Carson couldn't remember the day she'd come to Downton as head housemaid. He thought he should, surely the arrival of Elsie Hughes was something of significance. Her influence over the house and over his heart in the two decades since could not be more profound. He racked his brains trying to remember. The head housemaid before her…Clara her name was? Or maybe it had been Hannah? Whatever she'd been called, she'd left to be married, and they'd had to search outside to fill the position. He hadn't been part of the interview process; that was for the housekeeper at the time to sort out, and she had not shared her thoughts with him. The result though had been Miss Elsie Hughes. He didn't even remember being introduced to her, though presumably he was.

The earliest memory he could think of was of her voice. It was evening and he'd gone out in search of Andrew, a hall boy at the time. He'd sent the lad out for a bucket of coal (rather angrily, he recalled) and was growing quite irritated when it had not appeared.

He remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday. He was standing in the back entrance when he heard her voice carrying across the yard. She was talking to someone in a soft soothing tone. It was Andrew, who had apparently upturned the bucket of coal, and was now covered head to toe in soot. He was crying over how upset Mr. Carson would be and how all he wanted was to go home.

He'd stood there frozen, listening to her comfort the lad. Reassuring him that Mr. Carson was not actually the ogre the boy had built him up to be, and that it was all right to be a little homesick once in a while. She managed to make the boy feel better without lying to him and without undermining Mr. Carson. He was impressed, and more than a little enchanted by her musical voice. He heard them moving away from the coal bin and he'd hurried back inside, lest they see him. He had no desire to undo her hard work. It may not have been the first time he'd ever seen her, but he was sure it was the first time something stirred in his heart. He'd felt a pull of affection for how caring and how capable this woman was.

Over the years that affection had grown. He soon discovered that she was kind and quick witted, not to mention the only person downstairs that shared his taste in novels. She worked hard and had a natural flair for managing staff and household affairs. Her promotion to housekeeper could be seen a mile away, but she never took it for granted. She could be strict, particularly during her first few years in the post, when she was only marginally older than the staff she managed, but she was always fair. He admired that. His life had become considerably less lonely after her promotion, for as peers they were free to spend their leisure time in the evenings together and they often chose to. In her, he found the truest friend he'd ever had.

They shared stories and worries, great and small. They trusted their greatest joys and sorrows only to each other. It was only natural then that he cared for her, and that he felt a little protective of her. He had been so jealous of Joe Burns. He didn't feel justified in being so, but he couldn't help it. Joe, who was free to declare his affection for her in a way he never would be; who might have taken her away from Downton and away from him. His irrational anger at the man surprised him, and his relief when she turned him down was far too great to be ignored. Even if he did have the words to describe how he felt, he wouldn't have been able to say them to her. So he let it pass, as he would many more moments in the future.

It would be several years before the right words were stitched together. The night Mr. Matthew had proposed, Lady Mary had appeared at his door to tell him the news herself. The words were barely out of the girl's mouth before she was hugging him, her delight overpowering her sense of decorum. He had returned her embrace affectionately.

"I knew everything would turn out in the end, milady," he'd told her.

"Yes," she'd whispered into his jacket. "I love him." She'd pulled away and looked at him pensively. "It's always been him, Carson. Through everything else that's happened…I don't think I ever stopped loving him."

"I'm happy for you milady. You cannot know how much."

Lady Mary had left him a very happy and very thoughtful man that night. Her certainty in her decision was profound and all rooted in a very basic concept. She loved him. In the end that's all there was to it.

He'd thought of Mrs. Hughes and he knew, irrefutably now, that he loved her. Maybe it was not in the same dramatic or tumultuous romantic fashion that Lady Mary loved Mr. Matthew, but with absolutely the same feeling of certainty. It was a relief to finally put proper words to it, even if it made things more complicated. He contemplated all the ways that he might tell her, knowing he never would. Three simple words: 'I love you'. Simple, and yet somehow the most dangerous words imaginable. After that night, they were spoken thousands of times in his mind, but never out loud. He wasn't sure what they would accomplish and he was happy to carry on as they were. His love for her was not a secret exactly; it was just not ever a topic of conversation either. It was best this way, or so he thought.

She tested him, on occasion. Roundabout conversations about how their lives would be different if they hadn't chosen the path they had were tinged with an edge of longing. Discussions of previous loves lost had a decidedly hopeful quality to them. But their true feelings stayed buried in layer upon layer of subtext, allowing them to grow closer without ever explicitly acknowledging why. At times it made everything easier, and at times it was impossibly difficult. When his attraction to her took on a less intellectual form, his frustration with their circumstances deepened some. There was no doubt she was attractive, but he tried to forbid himself from thinking about her in that way. He succeeded in disciplining his thoughts for the most part, but every once in a while he would slip. The day he saw her schooling the maids on how to beat carpets properly in the summer sun, with her hair slipping out of its bun and beads of sweat dripping down her neck. The day she'd been caught in the rain on her way home from the village and he'd opened the back door to find her soaked to the skin. The day she'd sat at his bedside when he was delirious with fever, mopping his forehead with a damp cloth. Any day he was fortunate and unfortunate enough to walk behind her up the stairs.

Right now, when she nudged his knee under the breakfast table by accident, breaking him out of his reverie. She smiled apologetically at him, her eyes twinkling.

Quite a lot of slip ups really. He coughed, and returned to his newspaper but his head ached and he couldn't focus on the words. He rubbed his temples and she looked at him curiously.

"I'll be in my pantry if you need me," he said before standing and excusing himself. She watched him as he went. Quickly she finished her own breakfast and followed him out of the servant's hall.

* * *

He was sitting with his head in his hands, trying to muster the energy to look at the delivery schedule in front of him. She walked in silently with a glass of water, a spoon and a packet of headache powder. She placed them on the desk beside him.

"For you," she said softly.

He looked at the gift gratefully and let out a small sigh. "I love you."

She gave a start. "You what?"

He froze. In the years to come he would swear that he'd only said it in his mind, but sure enough the words had escaped aloud, forever into the realm of reality.

"Mr. Carson?" she prompted, not entirely sure she wasn't hearing things.

He was never going to explain his way out of this one, and his head hurt far too much to try. "Um, I meant thank you… and also, it may interest you to know, that I love you."

She stared at him in disbelief. As his sincerity sunk in, her hand covered her mouth, and she turned away from him. His heart plummeted when he saw her shoulders shaking. He was a bit stunned to be honest. He'd assumed if these words ever shattered their friendship he would be on the receiving end of her angry words, not her tears. "Mrs. Hughes, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. Please, that was careless of me. We'll forget I ever said anything."

Her hand fell away from her mouth and she let out a strangled sound that gave way to peals of laughter. He froze, confused. What on earth had just happened?

"Oh, for heaven sakes!" she managed, "Twenty years…I've wanted to hear you say that for twenty odd years and you say it over a HEADACHE powder?" She broke down into hysterics again at his confused face. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she was forced to pull out her handkerchief.

He gazed at her in wonderment. "You have?"

She wiped her face and composed herself somewhat. "Yes. I have." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What's brought this on?

"I…I don't know. It just sort of…happened all of a sudden."

"You decided you love me all of a sudden?"

"No," he said rather forcefully, before realizing that she was teasing him. He was already so flustered and she was making it worse. He stared at her, as she bit back a smile.

"You knew," he accused, crossing his arms.

She took a step closer to him and put a hand gently on his shoulder. "Mr. Carson. I will admit I suspected. Hoped, certainly. But even if I had been absolutely sure, it is something else entirely to hear you say it."

"Why is that?"

"Because it gives me permission to say it back," she said, looking up at him fondly. "I love you."

The way she looked at him took his breath away. His heart hammered in his chest. He should be afraid, of all this sudden unexpected change, of the destruction of a boundary he'd thought so clear, but he wasn't. The way she looked at him made him feel absolutely sure that he'd done the right thing.

Even if only accidentally.

He cupped her chin and ran his thumb across her lower lip. "Does _that_ give me permission to do this?" he asked, leaning in.

"Yes," she murmured, rising up onto the balls of her feet to close the distance between them. He caught her in a dizzying kiss, and she felt his arms wrap around her, steadying her. The room disappeared as they lost themselves momentarily in each other, delighting in the new sensation.

When they finally broke apart she looked at him carefully. "What happened to your headache?"

"A kind woman offered me a cure," he smiled, kissing her quickly on the cheek. His head still ached, but it had fallen very far down on his list of priorities.

She smiled, but extracted herself from his embrace. "You still have it," she observed, picking up the glass from the table and mixing in the powder. "Distractions notwithstanding."

He took it from her gratefully. "Will I ever be able to deceive you?"

"Apparently not," she laughed, "But that's alright. I've discovered I'm very fond of you telling me the truth."

He gulped the liquid down quickly. "Well, then come here," he said, setting the glass down with a flourish. "Because I have every intention of telling you the truth again."

And so he did, repeatedly. A truth Mrs. Hughes would never, ever grow tired of hearing.

* * *

**Next Up: Mourn Me. That's right, back to angst. **


	13. Mourn Me

**Mourn Me: A drabble about one character mourning the other's death.**

**Heed your standard 'implied character death' warning.**

* * *

It had been a shock, to say the least.

The warning signs were there, if one knew to look for them. He'd been fatigued, more than usual and often out of breath. But she hadn't thought…no one had really thought it would amount to anything.

He had told her once, in one of their many vague, meandering conversations about the future, that he thought he would die in the harness of service. The thought hadn't bothered him as it bothered her. She had smiled, and nodded and known that he didn't really mean it. He couldn't mean it, because they were supposed to be together well into their old age. When time had taken their ability to do their jobs they were supposed to go gracefully, if begrudgingly, together into retirement and that would be that.

But time had not taken their vitality piece by piece. Instead, fate had taken him. Cruelly and in one fell swoop, leaving her clinging to a broken hope.

The funeral had been a short, solemn and dignified affair. She had not been able to speak, though tattered fragments of a eulogy had fluttered through her mind all day. None of her words were adequate for the man she'd spent her life loving. She'd had no words to express her deep appreciation for him when he was alive, and now she had no words to express her sorrow at his passing.

Her feet took her to his pantry, while her mind was elsewhere. She was just going through the motions of being a person, not seeing what was in front of her, not hearing the sounds of the other servants filing in. Not existing. No one spoke to her, not even Mrs. Patmore, for nobody knew what to say. She existed in a strange, in-between state, one that left her untouchable in the eyes of the staff. A woman never married, but a widow nonetheless.

On a whim she poured herself a glass of sherry. It seemed fitting, despite the fact that supper had yet to be served. The glass looked lonely, sitting abandoned on the table by itself.

She poured another and pushed it across. One for him.

The taste was familiar. Comforting. Painful. She couldn't decide if this had been a good idea. She didn't know if she really had a choice anyways, everything she did seemed to be happening with or without her conscious thought. When she'd drained her glass her eyes fell to the one she'd poured for him. With trembling hands and trembling lips she took the smallest sip imaginable, before slowly pouring the rest on the floor. The wine mingled with the dust, forming a tiny stream that ran the length of the room.

The floor had never been perfectly flat in here. That had always bothered him.

She had not cried. She thought that odd. She assumed she would at some point, but it hadn't happened yet. She thought she would at the funeral at the very least. Most of the staff had, but she just didn't. She just shook. Tiny little tremors, so slight that no one else took note of them. They faded in and out all day long, leaving her legs feeling like jelly. Somewhere inside her there were tears of anguish and screams of frustration, but they stayed locked away, and she just felt shaky more than anything else.

His jacket was still neatly folded over his chair, but he would never put it on again. She ran her fingers experimentally over the fabric. It was not soft, but it was not scratchy either. She picked it up, cradling it. He'd been buried in his Sunday best of course, but this was what she was used to seeing him in. His livery. His uniform was as much a part of him as everything else. She pressed it to her cheek to discover that it still smelled faintly of him.

That was all it took.

There was a strange mounting pressure that rose slowly in her chest. She buried her face in his jacket just in time to muffle the cry that escaped her lips. There wasn't anything in the world she wouldn't give just to see him one more time, to hear his voice say her name, or to have his hand gently clasping hers. She clung to his jacket, this small piece of him, as if it were a life vest and she, a drowning woman. It accepted her tears and her cries and her fruitless pleas with God willingly and patiently. There was so much more that they were supposed to have together. So much more that would never come to pass. Through her tears, which she was almost relieved to finally feel running down her cheeks, she searched for answers. How she was supposed to carry on without him? How she was supposed to be in this house… how she was supposed to live her life…

Alone?

* * *

**A/N There is a lot of analysis I'm tempted to put here to explain myself, but I'll refrain and leave you to interpret the story for yourselves. I'm curious to hear your thoughts. **

**Next one is "Nurse Me." I tentatively promise no character death in that one. Seems I've done that enough lately. **


	14. Nurse Me

**Nurse Me: A drabble about one character healing the other.**

**This is a continuation of the S2E2 scene in his bedroom after Carson collapsed, combined with an unlikely theory I came up with in response to the April chelsie-anon prompt (but never wrote). **

**Chelsie friendship, with romantic undertones (overtones? somekinda-tones.) because I can't help myself.**

* * *

_"__That's something I would have never thought she was short of." _

"She is though, Mrs. Hughes," he said gravely.

She looked at him curiously as she measured out his medication. Lady Mary may lack certain things, but Mrs. Hughes did not think confidence was one of them.

"I know she's an adult now, but sometimes when I look at her I still see a little girl. The one that used to sit on my knee, already terrified of letting the family down before she'd even turned six."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "Lady Mary serves Lady Mary, and Lady Mary alone," she said, handing him the proper dosage. "Drink that."

He sat up and complied with her request. His chest still felt uncomfortably tight, even after lying down for the better part of two hours. She noticed how stiff he seemed and made a mental note to encourage him to stretch as soon as he was well enough to get out of bed.

"Thank you," he said, handing the cup back to her. His colour was better, that eased her heart somewhat. It had been a terrifying moment for her, rushing into the dining room to see him collapsed on the floor, face beet red. For a very brief second her worse nightmares had come true, but it was all over fairly quickly. The doctor reassured her (twice) that he hadn't had a heart attack and all he needed was some proper rest. She was going to ensure that he got it. He'd been resisting her pleas to slow down for weeks, but surely he would listen to her now.

He took a long drink of water and gestured for her to sit down. "I know you don't agree with me about her," he said, still thinking about Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew, "but I think I can be of help to her, Mrs. Hughes. And I very much _want_ to be. I know she can be a bit sharp, but it's a defense that she needs. It's not easy being the first born and with all that mess with the entail and all the rest of it…it's only made it harder for her to figure out who she is supposed to be."

The man would make Mary Crawley's excuses to his last breath, she was sure. Oddly, tonight it didn't bother her half so much as it usually would.

"But I'm well aware you don't agree so I will stop speaking of it," he finished, not wanting to drive her away from his bedside.

"No…" she said slowly. After getting over the surprise of seeing the girl in Mr. Carsons bedroom, she found herself grateful that she'd taken the time to visit. Clearly it had put Mr. Carson in high spirits and brought him to a calmer place. "Tell me about the Lady Mary you see. Tell me about when she was little."

His face broke out into a wide smile and he launched into a series of stories of the young 'Miss Mary' who had captured his heart from the hour she was born. None of his words were likely to change her opinion of the girl, but she loved to see his face light up as he talked about her. His love for this girl, this surrogate child of his was so clear. The more he talked the more she felt a familiar sensation stirring. A want that was deep and long repressed.

"What is it?" he asked, catching her preoccupied look. "You're thinking about something quite hard."

She gave him a little half smile. "You talk about her like a doting father, Mr. Carson."

"She is the closest thing I will ever have to a daughter, Mrs. Hughes and I know it. It breaks my heart to see her heartbroken over Mr. Matthew, regardless of how she got that way. I'm not sure if she'll take my advice, but I gave it to her anyways."

"She's lucky to have you, Mr. Carson. And perhaps …perhaps you are lucky to have her."

He'd always thought so, but he was surprised to hear her say it. He studied her carefully, but she started fussing with the things on his nightstand and avoided his gaze. Something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint what.

"What is it?"

"Are you warm enough? I could get another blanket," she said, pretending not to hear the question.

"No, I'm fine, thank you. Mrs. Hughes-"

"And your pillow, here let me fix it for you-"

"Mrs. Hughes." He grabbed her wrist as she reached for his pillow. "What did I say?"

She froze and he released his grip, hoping he hadn't hurt her. "Nothing," she said shaking her head, and withdrawing from him. "It is nothing."

"Are you jealous of her?" There. He'd come right out and said it. He braced himself for the inevitable angry tirade, but was surprised to hear her laugh instead.

"No…not of her," she said decidedly. She mumbled something else he did not catch.

"What did you say?"

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "Not of her. Of you."

"Me?" He had not expected that. What did she mean him?

She didn't quite know how to explain herself, but she thought she ought to try. "What you have with Lady Mary is not something I think I understand."

He wasn't sure he agreed, but he let it slide for the moment. "And that…upsets you?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

There was a pause. This was rapidly becoming far too intimate a conversation for them. There was something about being in his bedroom, with him in his pajamas instead of his livery that made her feel less inhibited. She finally gave up looking for something to do with herself and sunk back down into the chair beside his bed.

She seemed distant, not quite looking at him, gazing off into a world she wasn't sure she could share. Finally he got up the courage to speak.

"You would have been a wonderful mother you know."

She looked at him sharply. "You can't know that."

"I do, actually. I'm certain of it." His intensity was endearing, but it could not pierce through this particular shadow quite that easily.

"Maybe," she conceded, hanging her head. She looked at her hands, studying the lines she'd earned from age, the calluses from holding her pen, the small but permanent ink stain on the one side of her middle finger. After a long time he reached out, tracing the ink stain with his fingers before clasping her hand, hiding the mark from view.

"Did you want them?" he asked her. "Children, I mean. Someone told me once that all women do, but I'm not sure that's true."

Her features hardened. "What does it matter, Mr. Carson? I cannot have them."

"Perhaps not now, but-"

"No," she interrupted him before he could finish the sentence, thinking it would be painful to hear him say it. "Not ever, Mr. Carson. I could not have had them ever."

There was a bitter note in her voice, and the air seemed to vanish from his lungs as understanding washed over him. "Oh," he said simply.

She'd crossed a line and she knew it, but the words had just burst forth. She'd never imagined she'd tell anyone. It wasn't an appropriate thing to talk about, not even really with other women. She couldn't imagine what possessed her to confess it to him.

Mr. Carson finally found his voice properly again. "Mrs. Hughes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry-"

"No," she said, brushing off his apology. "It's fine. It is I who should apologize; I've made you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have said anything."

"I'm not uncomfortable," he insisted. He was, a little, but that feeling was drowning in his concern for all the hurt he seemed to have dug up. "Have you ever told anyone before?" he asked quietly.

"Only once," she said, thinking of Downton Abbey's previous housekeeper, Mrs. Winters, and one of the most awkward conversations of her life. Mr. Carson misunderstood her and assumed she was referring to Joe Burns.

"And is that why you're here? Why you refused to marry Mr. Burns and set your sights on being a housekeeper?"

"No. I did always have an inkling that I wanted to be a housekeeper one day. Besides, I didn't even know myself when I took a job here initially; it certainly wasn't why I turned him down. I didn't find out for sure until about six months after I started here." The worst of it had already been told; it couldn't possibly hurt for him to hear the whole story.

"It was actually Mrs. Winters that first suspected something was wrong. My own mother died when I was fourteen, I had no idea what was normal for a woman and what wasn't. But Mrs. Winters did, and I wasn't it. She sent me to the doctor, he confirmed it, and that was the end of that."

She half smiled, half grimaced at a memory. "I got such a talking to on mortal sin from her, it was better than any sermon I've ever heard. I guess she thought without the threat of falling pregnant I needed some extra motivation to avoid promiscuity."

"She'd clearly never met you," said Mr. Carson, before he could stop himself.

She gave a rather hollow laugh. "Yes, well. She'd only known me a short time; I think I might have done the same if I were her. But you're right, the lecture was not exactly necessary."

It was her turn to talk, and his turn to listen. Everything came pouring out, like a great dam had burst now that she was no longer confined by her secret.

"Do you know what's strange? My life might have played out exactly the same. I think it probably would have, if I'm honest with myself. I was doing well here, I wanted to stay on, and I greatly enjoy my job now. I don't have regrets, Mr. Carson. Still, sometimes I wonder if I became a housekeeper because I was always going to be, or perhaps because I convinced myself that this was what I wanted when there wasn't much alternative. Once I knew, it was the only thing that made sense, as if it were …as if it were what God had decided I should do and I didn't get a say in the matter. I have always resented - though I know I shouldn't - that He didn't give me that choice."

"God moves in a mysterious way," he said softly, quoting her own frequently spoken words back to her. "But I'm still sorry you weren't given the option."

"How can I resent not having the option, when I wouldn't have taken it? In all likelihood, even if it had been available I still would be sitting right here speaking with you, trying to rationalize the choice I made. Still doubting myself. Maybe doubting more even."

A few tears leaked out and she brushed them away with the hand he wasn't still holding. "I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I can't help but wish I knew what it would be like to have a family of my own. To have a little person look up at me and call me 'Mama' and _know_ how that feels."

She could see him opening his mouth and she knew the words that were coming. Kind ones about how the staff viewed her as a maternal figure, and that she's more of a mother to some of them than any of their own mothers ever were, but that was not what she wanted to hear.

"The staff-" he began.

"Are not actually my children, Mr. Carson," she interrupted. "Not one of them. No matter how much I care for them, they aren't my children. And forgive me, I'm no expert, but I do not think it is the same, so please don't say it is."

"No, of course it isn't," he said quickly.

"But it is something," she admitted. "I don't regret my life Mr. Carson, I do not need pity or reassurances on that score, but every once and a while I wonder. I need to wonder."

She could see them, in her minds eye. Over the years her mind had created hazy visions of what they might look like, little dark haired children laughing and running towards her across the yard. There was always a man standing behind her shoulder, one whose features were blurry, but who had started to resemble him more and more as the years went by. She pushed that uncomfortable thought firmly aside.

"Tell me about them?" he asked.

"What?"

"You're imagining them aren't you? You could tell me about them. If you want to."

She was startled to see him guess her daydream and even more startled to discover she wanted to share.

"There is no point…" she began, before launching into a painfully vivid description of what her family might have been. There were oddly specific details about things like the dinner table, while other seemingly important things, including how many little ones, were not present. He smiled as she told him all the essential things she would want to teach them and all the things she would worry about. When she'd come to a natural conclusion, she stared down at her hands, face flush with both excitement and embarrassment at her words.

"I hope it doesn't cause you pain to hear it, but you could have been a wonderful mother, Mrs. Hughes. You've given me irrefutable evidence."

"That's kind of you to say."

"Do you find it painful to think about it?"

"Yes and no. Even if they could have existed, I'm almost certain that they wouldn't. I wasn't meant to have a family of my own one way or another. There is no point in wondering, but every once in a while I can't help it."

"I'm sure that's only natural," he reassured her. "Even I wonder sometimes, much the same as you."

"Really?" she asked him, eyes shining.

"Yes," he said, for it were perfectly true. He had occasionally wondered what it would be like if Lady Mary had been his own daughter, or what it might be like to have a son. Some of it was different, but much of what she'd said rang true for him.

"But you don't regret not going that way?" It was a question, but one she thought she already knew the answer to.

"I do not." His certainty on this was absolute and it strengthened her to know that he also had wondered. Her imaginings of her hypothetical family faded from her mind, replaced by the much more concrete images of the life she had built for herself at Downton. A life she was proud of. A life she knew she never could give up.

"Mr. Carson," she said slowly. "I think perhaps it's easier to resent not having the choice, than to doubt the choice I would have inevitably made anyways. Not having a family was always out of my hands, maybe I should be grateful that it was."

"There is a certain logic to it," he agreed. "But if I may, Mrs. Hughes…you may not have children of your own, but you do have a family. One that loves you, in its own way."

He squeezed her hand and she squeezed his back. "And that is enough for me, Mr. Carson."

She shook her head slightly in mild exasperation "Here I am, supposed to be taking care of you, and now it seems we are the other way around." She stood up and pressed her hand to his forehead to ensure he didn't have a temperature, as Dr. Clarkson had instructed.

"I believe that is what family does, Mrs. Hughes."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," she smiled at him. "So they do."

* * *

**The next one is Offer Me. **


	15. Offer Me

**Offer Me: A drabble about one character giving the other a gift.**

**Set just before the end of series two, making this vaguely AU fluff. Dedicated to VoyICJ, for being a sweetheart. I hope you enjoy.**

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_Yorkshire, July 1919_

Mr. Carson was still unpacking a few books and personal items in his pantry when there was a knock on the door. He looked up and broke out into a wide grin to see Mrs. Hughes enter.

"I was starting to wonder where you were," he told her a little too casually.

"I know," she sighed. "And I'm sorry, but welcome home, Mr. Carson."

"Thank you, and no need to apologize. Moving the family back is a bit of a nightmare at the best of times, I'm sure you were quite busy."

"I was," she agreed, thinking back on the chaos of the day. Normally they were much more prepared for the return of the family after the Season, but they were short two maids and a footman, resulting in considerably more work for the rest of them. Still they managed, and now she was finally free to go and speak with the man she'd missed so much.

"Thank you for your letters," he said. He always said this the day he returned, as if it were some great burden for her to send them when it was actually a delight. She missed him terribly when he was away, and she poured that feeling into remarkably long-winded accounts of the goings on at the estate. He liked them immensely, or so he wrote back, always egging her on by telling her that it pleased him to be reminded of home.

"You're welcome. Thank you for yours." She was smiling, even more than she realized. She was just so happy to see him again and for life to get back to normal. Days were always lonely without him. He left an emptiness in her heart that no book or walk or endless hours of hard work could fill.

He looked at her carefully, drinking in the sight of the beautiful woman standing before him. Something about the way she smiled infused him with confidence and he quickly came to a decision.

"Come here, I've something for you." His stomach did a nervous flip when he realized that he was going to go through with what had been a ridiculous fantasy mere days before.

"Something for me?" He occasionally brought her back presents, usually candied almonds when he could find them, knowing she loved them dearly and that they were next to impossible to find outside of London.

"Yes," he said, pulling a small rectangular box from his bag. "For you."

This was no package of candied almonds, judging from the shape of the box and his curious nervousness. She took it from him politely and tried to pinpoint what had caused the strange shift in his mood.

He felt the need to explain himself. "There is a story that goes with it, and I'd like to tell it to you, if I may. But please open it first."

She nodded and obliged, lifting the lid to reveal layers of tissue paper. She carefully unwrapped them, revealing a beautiful silver chatelaine. It was much more ornate than her current one, which held only her keys and a pair of scissors fastened to a single plain clasp. This one was a bonafide work of art. She ran her fingers over the belt clasp, which depicted a pair of putti, surrounded by various foliage. From it dropped two small link chains that attached it to a triangular intermediary hanger. Attached to this hanger were five chains of various lengths.

"Mr. Carson," she said, awestruck. "I…" Her surprise actually rendered her speechless for a moment. It was far too fine a present; objections sprang to her mind immediately, but he interrupted her.

"I mean for you to have, and before you say no, may I tell you the story?"

"If you insist," she said weakly, not knowing what else to say.

"A few weeks ago, there was a Sotheby'sauction at their new location, apparently they moved during the war, I'd never seen it before. I do not know if you are familiar with the Calthorpes, but they are a powerful family in London society that recently went bankrupt when their Lord died. They sold their outlying East Anglian estates a while ago and a few weeks ago the contents were finally auctioned off." He'd never mentioned auctions in his letters. She was not half so familiar with the London auction houses or aristocratic families as he, so she accepted this without comment, listening with rapt attention. This preamble had to be going somewhere, she just didn't know where.

"Everything was divided into lots, sold to the highest bidder. It was dreadful to see really, a beautiful house split into tiny pieces like that, but I was curious so I went. I didn't intend on purchasing anything, most of it was far out of my price range anyways, but I did go to have a look."

This sounded very much like the Charles Carson she knew. Of course he would be curious as to what the contents of such a house looked like. She nodded politely, and he carried on with his story.

"So I was wandering through and in one of the lots I came across this," he gestured at the chatelaine. "It was in an old sewing box that was mostly filled with odds and ends, buttons, ribbons, thread, that sort of thing. They did not realize what was in it, or possibly they did and did not care, but either way I was quite taken with it. When the opportunity presented itself, I bought it."

He paused and moved as if to pick it up. She held it out to him, but he didn't take it as she suspected, instead he placed it in her hand, turning the ornate clasp over in her palm.

"Do you see the makers signature along the edge?"

"GU?"

"That's right. Stands for George Unite and sons. It's one of Birmingham's makers marks."

"Mr. Carson, this belonged to a lady, not a housekeeper."

"There is no distinction here between the two," he said quietly. "It is delicate, yes, but not fragile. It may have been forgotten when I came across it, but it did see regular use. You can tell, there are little scratches in the chains if you examine it under the light. It may be decorative, but that is most certainly not its purpose. What makes it more striking is the how practical it is." He looked at her meaningfully before losing his nerve and turning back to the piece in her hand.

"The filigree ornamentation isn't just meant to be pretty," he explained, shifting focus to the hanger. Mrs. Hughes thought it was far from pretty. It was magnificent with its tiny leaves, vines, and flowers all entwined, almost like lace yet somehow in metal.

"It reduces the weight so it's not so heavy," he told her. She nodded, tracing her fingers over the patterns. It was intricate, but there was a deliberate care in the design to ensure the weight was spread evenly. She examined the scissors hanging from the first chain. The decoration was not in the same style, but the handles had similar flower and fauna motifs. The case on the other hand did not.

"The decoration on the scissor handles and case add weight," he conceded, following her glance. "But you will find they also serve a practical purpose."

"Oh?"

"This is a character mask," he said, pointing to the face embedded among the scrolls adorning the case. "And the funny creature at the bottom is-"

"A dragon," she said, recognizing it immediately, "it's the head of a dragon."

"That's right."

"And this serves a practical purpose?" she asked, amused.

"Everyone will think twice before asking to borrow them," he told her seriously.

"I don't let anyone borrow my scissors now," she said.

"And now you won't have to explain why," he said, pulling the scissors out of their velvet-lined sheath and opening them. "I admit to polishing them for you, but they were in fairly good condition before. They had been taken care of, even if not ideally. Perhaps in future, they will see greater consideration. If that is something you wish." He was suddenly shy again, unable to make eye contact with her.

"There are still matches in the holder," he told her, opening it so she could see. "They have probably been left unused for a long time, but if anyone had the right knack for getting them to light I'm sure it's you."

He still wouldn't or couldn't look at her and realization had slowly begun to dawn on Mrs. Hughes.

"The pencil is in fine form too," he continued, turning over the little silver pencil in her hand. "Which is surprising, sometimes they wear out quickly, but we are not to late to get some use out of this one, if that would please you."

She didn't know how to respond to this, and didn't dare interrupt him, so she simply nodded.

"The notebook is empty," he said, popping open the clasp of the little metal case to reveal a few minuscule blank sheets. "But I'm certain you would be able to fill it. It's high time someone wrote in it again, and you are the only person right for the task."

She bit her lip as a great swell of affection threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn't finished yet. There was one more chain, this one empty.

"I knew you'd have less use for the thimble, so I've removed it. Besides, you'll need one chain to put your keys on before it truly belongs to you."

He finally met her eye, with a look of patient and understated affection. His worry that perhaps she didn't understand was washed away when he saw her blinking back tears.

"And you found this in one of the lots," she said slowly, stalling as she tried to understand where all this was coming from. "By some Providence?"

He smiled at her, more sure than ever of what he'd wanted to say. "Sometimes, beautiful things are in plain sight and still left unappreciated. When the lives of the Calthorpes grew busy with their struggles they didn't notice it, and when everything went to ruin it was likely left forgotten. When I came across it I was delighted, for when even in the midst of all the other thousands of object that belonged to the estate I knew its value immediately, but if I had lived in that house myself I may never have truly appreciated it. That oversight would be my fault of course, I should be more observant. But I _have_ found this now, Mrs. Hughes, and I believe it might suit you. As such, I would like very much for you to have it."

Her tears were falling in earnest now and she made no move to hide them. She knew for certain that they were no longer talking about the chatelaine, and that quite possibly they never had been. The sweet, daft, incomparable man!

"Will you accept it?" he asked her hopefully.

She nodded, her words thick. "How could I not?"

He smiled at her, his throat suddenly very tight. Fingers trembling, she removed her old chatelaine from her waist, slipped the various keys off it, and handed them to him. He took the hint and very carefully attached them to the last chain of the new one and handed it back to her.

"There," she said, affixing it to her waist. Her tears had slowed, but if anything she felt more emotional seeing the beautiful piece contrasted against her dress. "I can hardly believe that it belongs to me."

He took as step closer to her, closing the distance between them. "I think it was always meant to belong to you, Mrs. Hughes."

There was a lump in her throat. "And I will take very good care of it," she promised him.

"I know you will," he said quietly, looking deep into her eyes. "I'm sorry I had to say it in such a roundabout way, but you do understand?"

"Perfectly," she whispered. "You don't need to apologize. I understand perfectly."

His declaration may have been roundabout, but her response was not. She reached up to stroke his cheek and he cautiously put his hand on her hip. She smiled reassuringly at him and pushed herself up on her toes, meeting him in a kiss that had been years in the making.

And he understood her perfectly.

* * *

**For those interested…the family that went bankrupt, the auction house, and the chatelaine piece described, are all real. That said, I've no evidence that any of them were ever related to each other. **

**Next up: Paint Me! Let me just fetch an art smock… **


	16. Paint Me

**Paint Me: A drabble about one character drawing a picture of the other.**

**The prompt is mixing mediums, but I stuck with drawing because I thought it made more sense for a servant.**

* * *

He notices each and every one one of her expressions, no matter what she thinks. It's his job after all, to pay attention to things. All manner of things, from the precise spacing of the cutlery at a place setting, to the way the creases around her eyes change when she gave a genuine smile. She makes the most wonderful faces, many of them when she thinks he isn't looking and some of them because she knows he is.

The one she makes at tea that day is a real doozy. She sits there, sipping her tea while Mr. Moseley…Mr. Moseley who _she _has brought here and whom _she _insists they hire, pours the servants tea. The innocent expression she wears is betrayed by the fact that she can't look at him. He glares at her and memorizes the crinkles around her mouth as she tries not to look too pleased with herself.

Her true smile when he gives in almost breaks free, but at the last second she pulls it back and it's painfully polite instead of gleeful. There is a hint of pride in her eyes though that she cannot hide and it's an interesting contrast. He files that one away, too.

Alone in his pantry he pulls out his little sketch book, thinks for a moment, and starts to draw. Her hand gripping the teacup is slightly tricky, but eventually it comes right. Her mouth is even more difficult as he tries to capture the little quirk that gave her the appearance of innocence while her eyes were dancing. He has thought enough about what her lips look like that he doesn't need her there in front of him to know them. It's all there in his minds eye, and eventually on the page.

Occasionally he feels guilty that he does this and never tells her. To be fair, he draws a great many things, but she is by far the most compelling subject. He tells himself it's simply because she has so many fascinating facial expressions, a function of living in a world of very delicately constructed and calculated words. He knows with certainty that this is a lie, but it sooths him as he adds yet another sketch of her to his collection. Thinking about how her lips meet her teacup is less impure than thinking about how they would be meeting his, which is the alternative.

If she knew how many of them were in that little sketchbook she'd probably run for the hills. He should get rid of them, tear them up, burn them, something. Most of the joy comes in watching her and making them anyways, but he cannot bear to. Every one is precious to him; every one is a moment that he, sometimes only in the most distant of ways, shared with her. It feels like lying, but the truth is too difficult. The truth with her is always too difficult.

When he's finished he surveys his handiwork with no small amount of pride. This is one of the better ones, he is sure. For a moment he feels the urge to tear it out of the book and hang it up, or perhaps put it in a picture frame – he certainly has one in mind. Of course it is ridiculous idea and he dismisses it, tucks the sketchbook in the top drawer of his desk and locks it away.

He'll show her, he promises himself. One day. He _will_.

But not today.

* * *

**Next up is Quiet Me. Might be a while before the next one again. I'm still having trouble typing with both hands, best not to over do it. **


	17. Quiet Me

**Quiet Me: A drabble about one character trying to calm the other down.**

* * *

_September 1918_

She'd been strange in church that morning. Sitting next to her, he couldn't help but notice. He could barely hear her whispering the words along with the congregation at first and after the opening prayers she'd stopped saying them altogether. He'd meant to speak with her afterwards, but wound up in an unusually lengthy conversation with Mr. Travis instead. He couldn't find her when he went to walk back to the house and he assumed she'd left without him. It was only when he got back and realized she wasn't anywhere to be found that he doubled back, walking as briskly as he could back to the village.

She was standing in the churchyard as he had suspected. They'd buried William not two days before and that's where she was, alone in front of the cross that marked his place. He approached her slowly, trying his best not to startle her as he walked up beside her.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he said gently.

"So many…" she whispered. Her eyes flitted again through the crosses in neat little rows. Half. That was how many men from the Downton village wouldn't ever come back. Half. And it wasn't even over yet. She couldn't put a face to all the names, but most of the last names were familiar to her. There she stood, perfectly healthy while all of them had fought and died. She was devastated over William, and he was only one of the dozens and dozens before her feet. Her hands shook, not from sadness but from panic. Panic at not being able to wrap her mind around the loss, at not knowing why she couldn't put one foot in front of the other and walk home.

He watched her hands tremble, her shoulders locked in place. He didn't think he'd ever seen her so anxious. Her strange manner in church was starting to make sense. She was stuck, paralyzed by a rush of overwhelming grief. It had been a little while coming. Perhaps she'd thought busying herself with her work would get her through it. 'Carry on' wasn't that what she was always telling her girls in the face of hardship?

But she couldn't. She couldn't turn her mind from it. She couldn't be productive, no matter how badly she wanted to be. She looked at their names and could not fathom their bravery. She did not feel worthy of their sacrifice.

"Come," he murmured to her, taking her hand. She thought he'd come to take her back to the house, but he surprised her by leading her into the side chapel. The main sanctuary would be empty now, but the side chapel was also deserted. Used only for smaller services, it only had six rows of pews and an altar. He sat down in the second row, leaving space for her to join him. Not knowing what else to do she sat down beside him. Wordlessly, he pulled out the kneeler in their pew and she knelt automatically.

He sat there for a moment, waiting to see what she might do. Her mind was still outside with the rows of crosses. She didn't know how to make him understand. She didn't know how to say anything at all.

It seemed that he didn't expect her to explain herself. He picked up a Book of Common Prayer from the seat next to him and flipped through it carefully, selecting a page and pressing it into her hands. She looked down at it.

_The Prayers of the People _

"I'm going to pray for them," he told her, the invitation clear.

He spoke in low, hushed tones, reading the words she clutched in trembling hands. When he finished the first one she placed one hand over the text, blocking it from view.

He stopped. Waited. She moved her hand away and began to read in a shaking, but determined voice. "Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer…"

When she had finished she started again, sometimes replacing some of the passage with specific names when they occurred to her. In the words she found purpose. She was doing something meaningful again, maybe the only meaningful thing she could hope to do. As she recited them the cold grip that had clamped down on her heart started to loosen. When she came to the end of the passage again the book fell from her hands with a crash that echoed through the sanctuary, but she didn't even flinch. From her tongue came practically every prayer she could remember, in slow, measured tones. She meant them, felt them, in a way she never had before. Not ever.

He closed his eyes, a blind witness to her faith. It was almost as if he could feel it, cradling her as her words poured forth. With each supplication, and now the words were entirely her own, she pulled. Pulled on an intangible aspect of herself she didn't entirely understand. She pulled and pulled until suddenly she didn't have to pull anymore. The ladder had finally been strung and actually climbing it was effortless. She lapsed into silence. Her ability to form words even in her mind had become overpowered again, but this time by a blissful rush of relief. The weight that had become so terribly, unbearably heavy had been left behind, released from her compassionate hands only once she was fit to give it up. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she didn't even notice them until she touched her hands to her face. She pressed her forehead to the smooth wood of the pew in front of her, both her hands gripping it tightly; it's solid bulk beneath her fingers and against her face reminding her of the real world. She could only form one idea.

_Thank you. _

She reached out blindly for him, and her took her hand. She squeezed his slightly, her gratitude for the part he played also evident. He nodded and offered her his handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes quickly before handing it back to him. They rose together and walked in peaceful silence back to the house.

* * *

**Next one is Remember Me. **


End file.
